Unconditional Love
by expressurself
Summary: Elaine Wes, the Royal Guardian from Barrister Keeps, meets Lancelot and discovers love and faith in a world filled with hatred. Lancelot/OC.
1. Elaine Wes of Barrister Keeps

**Unconditional love**

Author's Note: This is regarding Lancelot, the greatest knight of the Round Table and Arthur's best friend, and his romantic affair with Elaine Wes (a character I made up inspired by one of my friends) after the war against the Saxons.—Note: This story picks up where the movie, _King Arthur_, ended, but with a few details altered. Lancelot does not die in this story, Cynric and Cedric are still alive and the Saxons will still be causing some chaos in Camelot, where Arthur is King and Guinevere Queen--- Anything that appears familiar in the context of the legend of King Arthur, whether in books or movies, is solely in the property of books or movies. I do not own anything except the imaginary character Elaine Wes, again note: my friend's name, and Thomas Mattson, Elaine's brother and another character name I made up out of my friend's real names. I hope you enjoy this story and please comment for any suggestions.

Thank you,

Expressurself

_Letters_

From Elaine Wes to Thomas Mattson

Dark and coldness combined is a symbolic couple of the dimness I see, my dear brother. It envelopes me day and night, while I ride in the countryside, surrounded by endless beauty of the lush mountains and hills, so easily recognized as Avalon. You might ask, Thomas, why I should feel dark in such a peaceful land, but I tell you now, I can feel the dreadful years to come in our lands. Nothing but war will be fought and lands conquered and no one will ever remember us. No one will write down this history, or recall this land as rightfully ours, and no one will even care that we once inhabited this earth. But I do care...which is why I am traveling to Camelot.After all, King Arthur cannot protect this land by himself. I sincerely hope he will welcome my assistance. Oh, the peaceful land of Avalon is unrivaled to anything else I have seen. Remember, dear brother, when we were but young children frolicking in fields of gold, fields of wonder in our native town? Do you remember the wondrous sights and smells there? The clean cut scent of grass and wild daises and the rippling circles the lakes made as they lapped onto the shoreline? Avalon is beyond paradise. It is beyond those rippling circles and that scented grass. It is perfection, everything that humanity has dared to dream about. It is with great honor that I pass through this land on my journey. I wish you were here, Thomas, to witness such a spectacle. I wish our mother were here too, to see this. Oh how I long to see her gentle smile, her benevolent face, and her loving attitude towards us? It is with miserable melancholy that she died just a year ago, when you left us for your rightful placement as King of Cott. Tell me, Thomas, do you still reside there with your loving wife, Evelyn? I have not seen you for over a year, and yet, it seems longer. Perhaps it is because of how close we were as children that I often forget how apart we are now that we are older. Now that we reach maturity, everything seems prolonged. But my dear brother, I hope that you find every contentment you deserve, because I am sure our mother and father would have wanted that for their son.

Father is doing well, by the way. He is striving towards his title, King Mark of Barrister Keeps. He misses Mother terribly, misses the way the villagers used to always exclaim their names together in unison- "Hail King Mark of Barrister Keeps! Hail Queen Elyzabeth of Barrister Keeps!" For sure, he misses Mother, for she was such an innocent creature and to an indescribable degree, he loved her. I know this, and so do you. Our parents' love for one another is very rare to find in many people, and I hope that you and Evelyn have this type of love for each other. As for me...well, I am still young and eternally optimistic. Perhaps when I reach Camelot, things will digress from my present state of affairs.

Beside the point, Thomas, I still wish to tell you how much I miss you and how much this journey will count towards my love of our lands. The love of our country is what drives me to do such a thing, what drives me to find King Arthur and help him. I will write later, my dearest Thomas, and pray in God's good name, for everlasting peace.

Adieu until later we meet-

Elaine Wes, Royal Guardian of Barrister Keeps


	2. Letter 2 to Thomas Mattson

_Letter 2_

Elaine Wes to Thomas Mattson

Dearest brother,

It is sadly with pen that I write to tell you of the deceased villagers I have encountered whilst traveling. Just a fortnight ago, I perceived the small cottages of villagers in the town of Macchiato. I stayed just ten minutes outside this town to the east and have acknowledged Macchiato as a gentle, passive land. However, just last night, I heard a thundering boom in the night, and from what I heard, the agonizing screams of men, women, and children, I knew it was not the weather I was hearing. The townspeople of Macchiato were in trouble. I saw, to my utter amazement and disbelief, Saxons invading the town. They were setting fires in the town square, and burning all the cottagers, while dragging the inhabitants out of their homes and throwing them in the middle of the street. Oh, Thomas, if you heard their screams of suffering, you would have felt what I felt...a continual wrath swathed me...and I immediately picked up my bow and arrow and rushed towards Macchiato with all the strength my legs gave way. But when I reached the town, the Saxons had left and the villagers were weeping in despair. They cried to me for help, recognizing me as the Royal Guardian of Barrister Keeps, and I promised them...I promised them through their mournful tears and sorrow cries that I would help them. I cannot deny them this promise Thomas. I must help these people. These Saxons must be destroyed.

And so I head further on to Camelot with more keenness, more relish, and more anticipation. If Arthur knew this, would he let this go? I certainly hope not. Thomas, I cannot break this promise. It is one of the only promises in life I _know_ for certain I must keep. It is a duty to my land, a duty to our family and my title.

Traveling is not an easy task, Thomas. Every day, my load is lighter than the last. Luckily, I do not have to eat much in order to maintain a healthy lifestyle. You know this, Thomas, don't you? It is but days, I heard from one of the villagers, that I will soon arrive in Camelot, and then, all will be well. As soon as I find Arthur, all will be well. At least, I hope so. I must also visit Merlin before then. When I left our town of Barrister Keeps, Merlin came to me and suggested a meeting with the Lady of the Lake, Nimue. Apparently, she has got some important news regarding King Arthur and the future of our lands. I am anxious to hear what Nimue has to say, and I quickly carry onward.

Affectionately, your sister,

Elaine of Barrister Keeps


	3. Elaine's Encounter

King Arthur watched as the clouds overhead converged in a bulky, gray mass. He sighed heavily, knowing a thunderstorm was coming soon. He was so close to Camelot, but no...the storm had to come now. He didn't say anything to his knights or his Queen though. It was an unnecessary topic to bring up on their ride.

At the thought of his sweet bride, he turned to his right and met her dazzling blue eyes gazing back at him with supreme loveliness. Her natural brown locks showered across her face, but she impatiently brushed them aside as she smiled halfheartedly towards her husband. Guinevere was at heart a true Woad warrior who fought for her own rights. She was talented with her bow and arrow and daggers and most dangerous on the battlefield. Outside it though, she was one of the gentlest women the knights had come to known. Arthur then turned to his left, where his best friend and most loyal knight rode alongside on his white horse...Lancelot of Sarmatia. Lancelot was a proud, cocky knight who was very down-to-earth and never bothered with what the world could be like. If Arthur was absorbed by his idealistic vision of how the world could be like, Lancelot was every bit more grounded in the hatred of the real world he lived in. However, he was passionate and very handsome; dark brown curls and dark brown eyes, strong physique, and talented with two twin swords.

"There appears to be a storm coming overhead." Lancelot commented brusquely, interrupting Arthur's thoughts. The King bit his lower lip in response.

"We will make it to Camelot, Lancelot. Don't you worry about that." Galahad replied to Lancelot's left. Arthur was glad for Galahad's optimist spirit; it certainly had held these knights together for the last sixteen years. Guinevere stirred silently to his right as she observed the skies.

Lancelot watched Arthur and Guinevere quietly. A year of venerating her in the highest degree possible known to him, and she did not notice him in the way he wished so. Sure, he had bedded many women in the past and they all loved him to a fiery, nonsensical extent, but Guinevere was different. She was perhaps the first woman he met that did not love him instantly, that did not wish to bed him immediately. And worst, she was the first woman he had fallen completely in love with, had given her everything of him, but received nothing in return for his love. No, instead, she wedded his best friend and became the Queen of Camelot, only with Lancelot known as her knight and her distinguished companion. He turned away so as not to see the two happily wed couple, and his eye caught on something else.

"Look, upon yonder. Do you see?" He pointed out a cloaked figure by the edge of the lake they were fast approaching. Arthur squinted in the misty haze and perceived the same figure.

"Yes! Who should it be?" He asked aloud. No one answered.

"Perhaps if we approach closer, we might have a look." Galahad suggested and the knights gathered around a bush, staring intently at the bent cloaked figure. Suddenly, a cloud of glinting, shiny flecks of glassy sequins scattered in a whirlwind, startling the knights. However, the cloaked figure stayed perfectly still as Merlin the wizard appeared before them. He leaned against his staff, his blue eyes dancing in amusement.

The cloaked figure stood up, the hood falling back and at once, Lancelot felt enraptured, staring at a woman of twenty or so, with wavy brown locks that fell back on her shoulders in a carefree, charming manner that illuminated even in the film of fog. Her eyes were the brightest green, gleaming and dancing with the same delight as Merlin's. They contorted a sense of peacefulness Lancelot had not seen before, and also a sense of despair, as though she had seen many wars at a time.

"Ah Elaine, I did not expect you here so soon." Merlin welcomed his guest warmly. Elaine made the slightest curtsy and smiled.

"I arrived a bit early. I could not stay in Macchiato too long, Merlin. The villagers were suffering and I knew I had to go get help before it was too late for them. When should Nimue be here? I need to get to Camelot as soon as possible before the storm hits."

"Sois patient, Elaine. She will come in time. After all, time ceases to wait for anybody or anything." He commented. Elaine nodded in vain and leaned against a large oak tree that overlooked the lake.

"I do hope Arthur will be of some assistance. I cannot do this alone." At this, Arthur's ears perked up. The stranger had mentioned his name, and from the tone, she required his assistance immediately. He became at once, more interested in this conversation.

"Ah, you do not know Arthur then. I am positive he will try in any way he can to help those in peril, especially those of innocent, worthy peril." Merlin mentioned.

"I sincerely hope so. I cannot stand and let the Saxons rage their way into this land as though it is rightfully theirs. Those mindless brutal hogs are nothing more than swashbucklers. I will not stand for our land being invaded by a crowd of _Saxons_." Her tongue accented the word as though it was poison. Lancelot smiled slightly at her disapproving tone. He could hear the deep accent of British and French she had, which meant that she had grown up in the area of Edinburgh or one of those England territories, perhaps one of those that were next to France.

"Elaine, you remind me too much of your mother." Merlin chuckled.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Elaine asked, slightly interested.

"Well, your mother was always hopefully optimistic about the world. She wanted to believe that we could be at peace one day with our foes and friends. She believed that war was the only thing that separated two potential friends, and she wanted, more than anything, to find some ways of making ends meet. You too, try to find peace. You know it will never come but you want to believe it."

Elaine didn't say a word. She stared at Merlin with her fiery green eyes and looked down at the water, mesmerized. A tress of hair fell across her face, but she didn't notice as she continued to stare at her own reflection. Merlin looked down as well, frowning.

"What are you looking at?"

"My reflection." She answered.

"What for, Elaine?" Merlin asked, perplexed.

"Just to see how much I resemble my mother in appearance. My father and brother used to say how much I resembled her. I never really took this to heart or noticed for myself. If I ever told anyone I was similar to my mother, how will I prove this to them? All I have are but memories, and no matter what I can do, I cannot transfer these memories into live pictures of that person." She was straying off topic, but Merlin never questioned her wandering, vagrant subject. He only watched as she continued staring at the open water in confidence and expectation, wandering what laid in the mind of that twenty-something year old woman, who believed so heavily in peace but knew it would never be obtained, who wanted so badly to help those strangers in towns she never heard of, who longed for adventured and craved for romance, and who inspired a world of majestic peoples.

Author's Note: I'm sorry if some things are off topic and slightly confusing. Such as the part where Elaine talks about her mother- I just thought it would provide some background info about what Elaine thinks about her family. After all, family is important to this century and it defines you as a person and what role you play in society. Because Elaine's parents are both from high society, she too is born with good education, expectations, and material possessions. Maybe in the next chapter, I'll talk more about Elaine's family and we'll end the family discussion there and I won't talk about it anymore. Thanks for your patience.


	4. Excalibur

**Chapter 4: Excalibur**

The lake grew lighter against the thick haze, a glimmer swimming towards Elena and Merlin. They waited patiently, as though they knew who was coming. All at once, the lake erupted as a fountain of water shot out into the water, and then came to rest once again. The Lady of the Lake, in her lighted beauty, had risen from the lake, clad in shimmering, white robes of the purest samite.

"Elena, Merlin, you have come." She said in her singsong voice.

"Lady, we have been waiting. Come, what of Excalibur?" Elena asked with irritation. The Lady of the Lake smiled broadly.

"You have quite the patience, Elena. But here, the sword of Excalibur is yours." She handed them the glinting weapon, tenderly handing it to them as the precious treasure that it was.

"Thank you Lady. I shall hand it to Arthur." Elena said.

"Good. For once it is in his hands, I can do nothing with it. When the time comes, Excalibur will be returned to the rightful owner."

"That shouldn't be soon. The Saxons are coming, and I prophesized a terrible and long war ahead of us." Merlin claimed. The three of them exchanged dark looks of dread.

"We shouldn't let this worry us yet. I must first find Arthur, and then we shall deal with it. He has no idea what is coming to him, what troubles he will see, what dangers he will encounter. Not yet at least." Elena sighed heavily. Merlin nodded in agreement.

"True. Take it to Arthur. Fight the Saxons. Gain the peace."

"Where will you be Merlin?" Elena asked.

"Near. Always near enough to see and hear you, Elena." Merlin's eyes twinkled in amusement. Then, with a slight pop, he disappeared.

Elena turned towards Nimue. "Thank you Lady. It will be returned when the time is right."

"Yes, of course. Fight for the peace we deserve. Remember, Elena, faith is supreme, of course. But love is even better." She disappeared too, into her watery, peaceful land, leaving Elena feeling somewhat puzzled.

She watched the lake for a few minutes before taking the sword; she headed in the direction of Camelot. Arthur gathered his knights together for a brief conference, still hidden in the thicket.

"Knights, we need to see to this lady for her quest in finding me and giving me Excalibur. I will need to hurry back to my castle before she arrives, so that I may make a dutiful entrance and erase any such suspicions that I have been traveling behind her. One of you, my knights, shall stir a distraction for her." He looked around his circle, his glance searching at each of his friends. Finally, his eyes rested on the greatest knight of the Roundtable, Lancelot.

Lancelot didn't wish to illustrate his impassioned enthusiasm, but he couldn't help but smile as Arthur's eyes landed on him. He nodded to show his approval and stood up. Tugging the reins of his horse, Lancelot made his way towards where he last saw Elena, into the forest.

Arthur nodded, "Yes, Lancelot will be of a good distraction."

"That is, if he can keep his hands off her first." Bors smirked. The other knights laughed as well, and Arthur couldn't help but keep a grin off his face. He wound his fingers around Guinevere and sighed.

"We should be going. I do not know how much time Lancelot can buy us, and the storm is heading in." Arthur suggested. The other knights rounded up their horses.

"Let us only hope that this prophecy we heard of is not one that will leave me in tears." Guinevere whispered to Arthur. He nodded gravely to his wife and stared straight ahead, riding into the mist.

Elena watched as Lancelot approached her. She knew who he was. Knew even before he had stepped into the forest. She stood, unmoving, as he approached, his dark hair brushing his forehead, his eyes studying her, his mouth curled. She stared back, keeping a straight face.

"Who are you?" Lancelot demanded, his hand going for his swords.

"You know better than to attack a woman, Sir Lancelot." Elena replied coolly. Lancelot dropped his hand to his side.

"It depends on who she is." Lancelot countered, ashamed. Elena was slightly impressed.

"I am Elena, daughter of King Mark and Elyzabeth." She lifted her head proudly, and the light captured her. Lancelot swaggered backwards.

"The Lady of Wales? The royal guardian?" He whispered.

She glided to his side and smiled. "Yes, if you must add a label."

Lancelot dropped his head. "I'm sorry, my lady, if I seemed harsh. I was being..."

"Careful. I know. You do not need to apologize Sir Lancelot. You have nothing to be sorry for." Elena gently replied.

Lancelot raised his head. "My lady, what are you doing here? This part of the woods is dangerous."

Elena smirked. "Danger is what we face each day in these lands. Danger is our life now."

"Yes, and those who find themselves in danger often get killed."

"Then, let me be murdered." Elena raised her chin. "I'd rather than be under the possible rule of the Saxons."

"As do I, my lady, but we must tread carefully. The Saxons are nearby, last I heard" Lancelot whispered urgently.

"I thought you were a knight?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I am one of King Arthur's knights."

"Then, as a knight, shouldn't you be courageous?"

"It is not courage that tells the danger of staying here." Lancelot held out a hand to her, urging her to come.

"No, that would be intelligence. But none whatsoever, I do not wish to go." She pushed his hand away.

"My lady, I will not leave until you do. At least, you'll have me here to defend you."

"I can defend myself perfectly." Elena replied quietly.

"Against the Saxon army? I'm sorry, my lady, but even Arthur couldn't do that alone." Lancelot laughed.

"You're proud. An obvious trait of one of Arthur's knights. Proud, yet unforgiving." Elena studied.

"How should you know?" Lancelot tested.

"I know you. More than you think I do." Elena smiled and beckoned him to her side. Lancelot could hardly breathe, but he obeyed.

"What do we do?" Lancelot asked, sitting down beside her.

"We wait." Elena replied.

"For what?" Lancelot asked.

"For a miracle." Elena said in vain. Then she looked to Lancelot. "You love him, don't you?"

"Who?" Though he knew perfectly whom she was talking about.

"Arthur." Elena stated simply.

Lancelot turned away. "Yes, I do."

"How much?" Elena advanced closer, her voice soft and gentle.

"I would go to Hell and back to protect him. He is my best friend."

"Friendship is very limited in this world, Sir Lancelot. If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will found himself alone. A man should keep his friendships in constant repair."

"I shall always, for Arthur is one I could never forget."

"Of course not. None of us could forget."

"I shall never forget you either." Lancelot turned to her. Elena's eyes widened in mild surprise.

"And why not?"

"Because you're hard to forget. Close my eyes and there you are." Lancelot smiled a little.

"I exist here only to help those in peril. But there will always be someone to help you. Then you shall forget me."

"No, I couldn't. I could never forget you." Lancelot bent down and kissed her. Their lips locked, he found himself tracing his hand around her back, and found her hands around his neck, pressing herself closer to him. At first she was aware only of his mouth on her mouth, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp her waist and pull her more firmly against him, the sweet taste of him and the steady uninterrupted pounding of his heart.

Smiling, the knight pulled her closer so there was almost no light visible between them. Their hands interlinked, her face raised up to his, and the moonlight turning them to a study in contrasts.

The hesitation was lost, and all restraint vanished. Lancelot had never experienced something like this before. He had never loved like this before. He had released all his emotional states, everything he had locked inside him for years.

He had fallen completely, irrationally, in love without even meeting the object of his desire. He knew that on one level, he was one of the masters of the universe, yet on another level, he was a slave to love. He was tormented by love. And not just tormented by any such person, but yet by Elena, the product of the new religion; against revenge, which drove him, and ruled by compassion, and by her heart.

Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins and in this way only.

"Lancelot..." Elena broke apart slowly. Lancelot stared into her soothing, hazel eyes.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Please call me Elena." She smiled, and kissed him again. Lancelot murmured in agreement.

"As you wish."

They broke apart after a few minutes; reasonably infatuated with each other after the precious moments they spent in concert. Elena gazed up into Lancelot's brawny, boyish appearance. His upturned nose presently gave his face a cocky appearance, an impression easily reinforced by his smile. He was rather good-looking, she admitted, with dark hair that curled if allowed past the regulation short back and sides, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. He seemed to have a rather serious countenance, but the suppressed smile she had seen indicated that this was not his habitual expression. He left a deeply marked impression on her that she could not explain, nor that anyone else left on her before.

"I think I would miss you even if I would have never met you." Lancelot said.

"Lancelot, I have to get to Camelot. I have to see Arthur. I have to give him Excalibur." Elena replied mellifluously.

"Yes, let us go together. I must go to Camelot as well, and I was hoping that I'd go well before the storm." Lancelot answered.

"Of course. You don't want to get wet, do you?" Elena smiled.

"No, and I don't want you to get wet either." Lancelot grinned.

"Hmm...a selfless knight in shining armor. That has always been my dream, you know." She fingered his cheek tenderly. Lancelot placed his hands upon her arms and kissed her- a slow, sweet kiss- before he grabbed the reins of his horse and propped himself up. Elena climbed onto her own horse and rode beside him.

"My father told great tales of you, " she said as the eastern winds blew their way. "Of men so brave, so selfless, so heroic that they cannot be real. Arthur and his knights." Lancelot looked her for a reason behind her sudden outburst, but her face portrayed nothing but the serenity she represented.

"I have heard many tales of you as well, my lady." Lancelot replied, his eyes resting on her. Elena looked up, a lock of hair brushing against her temple in an unruffled manner. "Of a woman so noble, so gifted, so calm that she cannot be human."

She lifted her hazel eyes to greet his, startled. Lancelot could see behind her stunned expression that she was quite pleased with his admiring comment. He could read her like an opened book, for she did not keep her emotions completely to herself. She poured these feelings out to her companions, not because she wanted to, but because she needed to. Because when she did, those around her are able to trust her easily.

"You jest, Sir Lancelot." She said, a hint of amusement hidden in her voice. Lancelot almost laughed.

"My lady, I do not quip in such a manner. My word is truth, unless you have it otherwise." Lancelot knew this would tear down her barricade. She was testing him for his own trust in her. She trusted him fully, he could tell, from the moment she laid her eyes on him. But he knew that she believed he did not trust her entirely. And truth be told, he didn't.

"I put my utmost faith in you, Sir Lancelot." She said coolly and progressed towards the walls of Camelot. Lancelot followed shortly behind, pondering her words and her trust.


	5. The Beginning of a new Friendship

**Chapter 5: The Beginning of a new Friendship**

AsLancelot and Elenareached the wall, the guards stepped forward. They took one look at Elena and bowed. Obviously, they knew who she was. Countless tales had been told about this warrior-princess from this land, so beautiful, so clever, and so fiery that men would flock from anywhere just to get a glimpse of her. Elena looked slightly taken aback at the guards' strange gesture, but smiled placidly at them and treaded forward.

The two of them were silent for the rest of the way. Upon reaching the castle, Lancelot called the guards to open the gates. They did so, and as the doorway swung open, Lancelot could see Arthur standing there, with Guinevere beside him, and his knights surrounding him. They were here to greet Elena.

"Ah, Lancelot, I see you brought a visitor." The King smiled at his best friend, watching him slide off his horse and lead it towards the stables. "Meet us later in the dining hall, Lancelot."

Arthur stepped to the left side of Elena, and taking her hand, kissed it very lightly. Elena displayed an unflustered face, as she simply nodded to Arthur's gesture. He grasped her hand and helped her from her horse.

"My lady, I am King Arthur." He bowed. Elena did so as well.

"A great honor to meet you, King Arthur. I am Elena, Lady of Wales." She was incredibly modest and Arthur was slightly staggered at her unassuming nature.

"My lady, 'tis a great honor to meet you. Come, I expect you have come from far and wide and are very tired. We shall have dinner. But first, meet my knights." He waved a hand at Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Tristan, and Dagonet, who offered their best of greetings. Elena nodded to each one in return. Arthur then led her to Guinevere, who was smiling. "And this here, is my wife, Queen Guinevere. Guinevere, this is Elena of Wales. "

"Pleased to meet such a high, distinguished figure, Lady Elena."

"As with me, Queen Guinevere."

If one was could distinguish which of the two women was more beautiful than the other, I am afraid to say that they would have a most difficult time. While Guinevere had such an attractive figure and blossoming face, Elena exhibited a very charming, alluring sense, glowing in the light. Men would have fought valiantly, unquestionably, for both of these ladies, for there wasn't one attribute the other didn't possess.

Arthur gathered his knights, his Queen, and his gracious guest towards the dining hall. There, the table was shaped in the same way the Roundtable was shaped; round, to signify that everyone who sat before it was equal in the eyes of God. Immediately as they took their seats, the food was served. Elena sat to Arthur's left, as the guest. Lancelot sat beside her. She ate quietly and chatted amiably with Lancelot and Arthur.

"So, my lady, what brings you here to Camelot?" Galahad raised the question after dessert was served. Elena smiled with nobility.

"Ah, an excellent question, Sir Galahad. I was wondering when one of you would have asked me that. I have come here for an exclusive business with your King. I have brought him a present from Nimue, the Lady of the Lake." She answered, in all truthfulness. Everyone around the table sat in shock. They had expected her to tell untruths or delayed the question, but she had come out straightforwardly. No one anticipated for this moment. They knew people as liars, but she was an innocent bystander. The first innocent passerby they had come to meet.

"Well, my lady, what does the Lady of the Lake wish to give me?" Arthur was the first to recover.

"King Arthur, she wishes to give you Excalibur, the legendary sword of the lake, and its scabbard, which will protect the wearer from shedding blood. It is a precious sword, and given only to most worthy of swordsmen. Obviously, she has put good faith in you to lend it to you."

Arthur was undoubtedly, dumbfounded. Elena was an honest woman, she had told him everything he had heard while witnessing her, Merlin, and Nimue at the lake. He never had come to meet a woman like her, who told nothing but truth, and was pure in virtue.

"Excalibur? She wishes for me to have her?"

"Yes. She wishes for you to use the sword wisely in the war against the Saxons. " Elena described. "I will give you the sword after dinner."

"Very well. Thank you, my lady."

"Please, King Arthur, you must call me Elena."

"Oh. Well, in all honesty, then you cannot call me King Arthur. You must then call me Arthur, for that is all I am. Nothing but a man."

"Nothing but a man? On the contrary, sir. You are the talk among people I have seen and encountered, villages I have walked past, and enemies that I have slain. Everywhere I go, talk about you grows each day, to a greater high than before. They talk about your honor, your pride, and most of all, your heroism that saved their land. Only a true hero would call himself nothing but a man. Arthur, you are the instance of that hero."

Silence filled the room. Glorifying silence at Elena majestic words. Everyone around the table raised their glasses and shouted, "To Arthur!" The King was glowing in happiness and praise. He raised his cup as well.

"No, not to me. To Elena, Lady of Wales, for her kind words." He drank it all in one gulp and held it against the penetrating light from the window. "To Elena!"

The knights and Queen followed suit. "To Elena!" They cried, with a voice that could withstand a terrible army. This day marked the first day of the story, and later, the legend. Arthur, his knights, his Queen, and Lady Elena- figures of nothing but dignity and valor.

After dinner, the sky grew darker and the northern winds calmed to a steady stop. Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere followed Elena out to the stables for Excalibur. Untying the sword from her horse, Elena held it tightly in her hands as she passed it to Arthur. As he reached for it, Elena felt a sudden jolt stream through her hand and up her arm. She curled her hand, but made no impulse to wince or shout out in pain. Arthur examined the sword with enthusiasm.

"It is a beautiful and powerful sword. I am honored to possess it." Arthur stated. Guinevere admired the craftsmanship upon the sword. Unexpectedly, Elena whipped her head around, just as thunder pelted the earth. She studied the shadows of the stables, noticing everything, even the smallest freckle of dust. Lancelot noticed her look and trembled slightly.

"What is it, Elena?" He advanced near her. She held out her arm.

"Shh. Lancelot, stand back." She whispered, reaching for an object tied to her horse. Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot traded puzzled looks, but before they could do anything, a scream pierced the air and a dark figure jumped out behind one of the stables. His face gleamed in the torchlight, bloody and filled with sweat. It was a Saxon. He held a sword high in the air, ready to strike Arthur, who was too astounded to do anything. The Saxon raised the sword, ready to crash it upon Arthur's head, when swiftly, an arrow whizzed the air with a metallic thud and landed in the Saxon's chest. He fell to the ground; his eyes wide open in astonishment, clearly dead. Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot turned around to see Elena posed, her hands still locked with her bow, her eyes blazing with fury. As she looked up into the faces of her companions, the burning fire in her eyes died down and was replaced with the usual cool and calm look. She lowered her bow and swung it over her shoulders.

"Are you alright?" She asked Arthur. He nodded, still shocked. Lancelot advanced towards the Lady, impressed.

"You have quite the timing and the skills." He remarked favorably.

"Yes, how on earth did you know the Saxon was there?" Guinevere asked, her heart racing. The thunder had ceased, and a dewy steam hung over the grounds of Camelot.

"At first when we entered the stables, I felt something cold that did not belong here, but I only took it as the wind. But then, I heard something within the shadows and knew an intruder must be within. Since Guinevere and Lancelot did not have any weapons to protect themselves, and Arthur was too dazed from the surprise, I had to take matters into my own hands. I apologize if I frightened you."

"No. It was an excellent example of archery. You have quite the bow and arrow, my lady." Arthur commented.

"Yes, it was brilliant. And you saved my husband. I owe you a great deal." Guinevere said, smiling in admiration.

"He would have done the same, if I was in his position. Any one of you would have, that is the way I have heard of you. I was only acting on impulse." She shrugged. Lancelot smiled at her.

"An incredibly swift impulse, might I add? You could do well for one of Arthur's knights."

Elena laughed, "As flattered as I am with your remark, Lancelot, I regret to say that I shall leave Arthur with his men."

"Ah, but the women have their own strengths as well." Guinevere had a familiar twinkle in her eye. Elena smiled as well.

"I have heard of your expertise in archery. The Woads told me that you are well versed in their fighting techniques. They told me of you, Guinevere, as a formidable adversary."

Guinevere flushed, "You know of the Woads?"

"Yes, I passed through their village when I was on my way here. Pleasant people, they are, and very welcoming." Elena praised Guinevere's people. The Queen felt extremely proud of the Woads at that particular moment, and immediately took a great liking on Elena.

"Yes, they are, aren't they?" Guinevere recollected.

"You are a Woad warrior, is it true? I heard from them."

"Yes, I am." Guinevere proudly confirmed. "I was born among the Woads. They have raised me and taught me the mastery of archery. But tell me, who taught you of your proficiency in this art?"

"My mother. She is professionally skilled at archery and teaches the sport to the children of our town, and passersby that come and go. Because my father frequently leaves for his wars, my mother taught me the archery she knows. But my father taught me everything else I know about weaponry, about swords and daggers, and spears and all. My mother says I got my warrior side from my father. He is a fighter, and so am I." Lancelot was stunned. When he had met her, he never suspected her as a warrior, until she had established herself as Elena, and he knew of her great skills at combat fighting. But he never saw them until now.

"Your mother? I believe, the Duchess of Malory?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, Elyzabeth Windsor of Malory. And my father is King Mark of Wessex." Elena affirmed in respectable implication.

"And the rest of your family?" Lancelot asked in curiosity.

"My older brother, Charles, and his wife Rosalind, are the Duke and Duchess of York. And what I last heard, my younger sister, Lady Davina, is in Edinburgh. So as you can see, I am never lonely or without family."

"Quite true. Might I suggest we head inside before the northern winds come again?" Arthur threw an arm around Guinevere. Lancelot caught Elena flirtatious eye.

"Arthur, you and Guinevere best get inside before it is too cold. I will accompany Elena around the flower gardens. She said she wanted to see them before the night grows too dark to see." Lancelot said.

"Of course. Come inside afterwards, then. Come, Guinevere." And he and his Queen left, leaving Lancelot and Elena alone.

The knight ran his hand down her face, his eyes locked with hers longingly. She gently laid a hand on his and pressed it downwards. She closed the remaining space between them until she could feel his warm breath against her cool skin and his dark curls dance on her forehead. He plunged his fingers into her hair and she melted against him, tightening her arms around his shoulders as they kissed, caught up in a tidal wave of passion so intense Elena had to wonder where it had come from...or perhaps it had been there all along, just biding its time.

"Lancelot," she murmured against his neck as she felt great shocks, as if of cold or heat, tearing through her nerves, burning away rational thought. She felt as if she were falling and there was no end to her descent. She remembered the first time she had kissed him, and it had been like a strange miracle, all that known familiar country she had seen so often now being learned by touch: the feel of his mouth, the slight roughness of his skin, the taste of him.

"Lancelot, look!" She suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the west. The knight turned around, his hand still lingering on her waist. The shower left a mystifying glow to the west, where the fragile light hit a small patch of trees. The light managed to create a mesmerizing cage, the trickle of rainwater falling from branch to branch, leaf to leaf, and the occasional drip-drop sound. It was a small phenomenon, but not one that people usually viewed as a marvel.

"It is beautiful." Lancelot breathed, awestruck. "I have never seen anything like that before. In fact," he turned towards her, "I haven't seen such a spectacle in my life before." He kissed her temple.

Elena smiled, "I'm glad you like it. I consider it a small miracle."

"Elena, you are a compassionate person and you see the small miracles that most of us can't."

"You can see it too. You just have to open up your eyes." She whispered, her head falling on Lancelot's shoulder. He nodded, more to himself than her. Fascinated, he took her hand, gingerly rubbing them and bringing them to his mouth, planting kisses along the edges of her fingers. She smiled faintly as she watched him.

"Why don't we go inside and join the others?" Lancelot suggested after a long while. Elena nodded in agreement. Together, the two of them walked back to the castle, hand in hand.


	6. What tomorrow brings, we do not know

Disclaimer: The conversation between Arthur and the Knights is from the _King Arthur_ movie script, as is Lancelot's quote "I will die in battle, of that I am certain..."

Warning: Scenes of Lancelot and Elena's "rendezvous".

**Chapter 6: What tomorrow brings, we do not know**

They walked round the bend of the stables and into the castle. The corridors were dark as always, and unusually quiet at this point of hour. Suspicious, Lancelot moved ahead slowly, his hand interlaced with Elena .

"It is quiet." Lancelot observed.

"Uncommon?" She asked, apprehensive.

"Quite. Regularly, you could hear Bors drinking round this time." He answered, a slight smile evident upon his lips. A shaft of light illumined the halls, and Lancelot carefully approached the doorway. Sighing with relief, he cracked open the door an inch to reveal the rest of the knights and sitting around the Round Table, and Arthur at the head, pacing. They all shifted their gaze to the door as it creaked.

"Ah, Lancelot, you have come to join us?" Arthur pointed to his right hand chair. Lancelot eagerly sat down besides him.

"What is it, Arthur, that has brought us here at the Table?"

"The Saxons. They are coming closer, and will attack most likely by tomorrow. We will need to stage a war with them."

The other knights stared at him disbelievingly. A war? How possibly, could Arthur even consider a war with the Saxons when they were free men, when they had fought fifteen years to protect Rome?

Galahad spoke, "Arthur, our duty to Rome, if it was ever a duty, is done. Our pact with Rome is done."

"Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you. For you." Bors pointed out, "And instead of freedom, you want more blood? Our blood? You believe that taking the lives of the Saxons will bring the peace we have been fighting for so long?"

Arthur looked crestfallen as he searched the faces of his fellow knights. "Bors, these are our orders. We must leave at first light, and when we return, your freedom will be waiting for you."

"I am a free man!" Bors interrupted.

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? Outnumbered, outflanked, but still we triumph? We are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?" Arthur questioned, as calmly as he could.

"Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist," Lancelot shook his head, "Never. There will always be a battlefield. There will always be something to fight for."

"Knights, if you do not wish to accompany me, then so be it. My journey with you must end here then."

"Arthur, this is not Rome's fight. It is not your fight. All these long years we have been together, the trials we've faced, the blood we've shed. What was it all for, if not for the reward of freedom? And now when we are so close! When it is finally in our grasp, look at me, Arthur!" Lancelot grabbed Arthur by the shoulders roughly and shook him. "Does it all count for nothing?"

"You ask me that. You, who knows me best of all?" Arthur whispered, shaking off Lancelot.

"Then do not do this! Only certain death awaits you if you do this, Arthur." Lancelot was pleading for his friend to give up on this war. Arthur rested a hand on Lancelot's shoulder and sighed.

"Then live for the both of us, Lancelot. You be my friend and do not dissuade me. Of all the lives I have taken, all the blood I have shed has come down to this moment." With that, Arthur gave his knights a solemn farewell and left, barely noticing Elena as he fled from the room. The other knights watched in incredulity. Elena looked at the knights with an emotive glance, her eyes cast downwards. Lancelot walked over to her.

"There is nothing left for us to fight. We are free men; we deserve the freedom we have earned. To fight is only an obstacle to lose that freedom. I fought for peace. And I earned it." He said, fumbling with his fingers.

"Did you ever believe what you were fighting for?"

"For peace, of course. All these years, it has been for peace."

"What peace, Lancelot? Peace for yourself? Or for your people?"

"These are not my people that I fight for. And I do not believe that one fights for anything. Not for his country, nor his people, and especially not his God. One only fights for the sake of it. "

"If you do not have faith in what you are fighting for, then a war is worthless, Lancelot. If you died fighting, what would it be for? Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity."

"War is not its own end, expect in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It is peace that is wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with." He replied.

"Lancelot, one is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as to lose one. War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling that believes that nothing is worth the war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight for, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. "

She cupped his chin, her full lower lip trembling. Lightly, she planted a single kiss along his jawline, and then broke apart. She turned and walked out the door, her robes fluttering after her. Galahad stood up, his chair squeaking against the floor, and clasped a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. Lancelot made no move, but stared straight ahead, wondering what had just happened.

Elena crossed out of the castle and into the surrounding grounds of Camelot. Shrouded against the darkness, she tightened the claret cloak around her shoulders and spotted Arthur figure a couple of steps away. She swiftly approached him, her feet barely making any sound, and crouched down next to him. Arthur made no impression that he knew she was there, but Elena knew he acknowledged her.

"The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainly, not knowing what comes next. Your knights say they fight for peace. But peace is not an absence of war; it is a virtue, a state of mind, and a disposition of benevolence, confidence, and justice. I do not agree with you on many things, but I do believe that one who desires peace must prepare for war, whether it be his war or someone else."

Arthur turned to look at her. She rested her head on her hand, her eyes flickering in the moonlight, her hair blowing in the cool winds. He sighed heavily. "You can't separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom. My knights know this. They know they have not their freedom yet, until this world is at peace."

"But this world will never be at peace, Arthur. No matter what you believe, you must know that this cannot be the end. Lancelot said that there is always something to fight for. For freedom, for glory, for love, for power. Men fight for such things each and every day, and they will for as long as they rule the earth."

"Then I am not the hero that you say I am. If I have not achieved even such a short-lived peace, then I am nothing. I have failed." He hung his head. Elena touched his cheek, forcing him to look up.

"I think of a hero as someone who understands the degree of responsibility that comes with his freedom. You understand it. You know that there is always a price to come with freedom and with peace. You are more of a hero than you think you are. You are what you are because of the conscious and subconscious choices you have made. In the truest sense, freedom cannot be bestowed, it must be achieved."

"We have waged a war to protect a Rome that does not exist. What if my knights are right? We fought for something that does not belong to this earth for so long, and I must throw it away with a single deed?"

"You stayed and fought when you didn't have to. You killed evil men when you could have run. You did all that for a reason, Arthur," her voice was barely above a whisper now, but still comforting and uplifting. "These are your people."

"And if I die?" Arthur questioned, though he never asked this before to anyone, save she.

"Then you die an honorable man, knowing that you have departed from this wretched world a man with optimism and opportunity. Arthur, do not what your knights say or what your country says. Do what your heart says, for a man ruled by his heart is far greater than any other man."

Arthur stared at her for a brief moment. Her eyes were dancing with a powerful and passionate confidence, and a desperate faith for him he had not seen in any of his loyal knights or his loving wife. Here was a woman, a stranger practically, who he barely knew, and yet he trusted deeply. She touched his shoulder gingerly, her hand very light. Arthur took her hand in his, and then said, "Of every battle I have fought and every blood I have shed, I never would have imagined it come down to this. That tomorrow could be the certain death of us all."

"What tomorrow brings, we do not know. As for me, I do not care." She said. Taking one final look at him, she stood up and walked back towards the castle, solitary but strong.

Elena sauntered back to her room, and drew the transparent silk curtain around her bed. She removed the clasp from her hair. Golden strands of hair fell down her back, draped with candlelight. The door scraped open, and she stood, unmoving. She heard the familiar footsteps of a knight as he approached her, his hands suddenly caressing her bare arms, his lips on her shoulders, and his hair tickling her neck. Her robes hanging round her elbows, she abandoned them as she stroked his face and moaned with pleasurable delight. He spun her around, and surprised, she stumbled forward and fell against him.

He caught her steadily, and kissed her. He obviously put everything he had, every ounce of feeling for her, every last vestige of passion and every shred of frustrated love, into that kiss. As if he were trying to burn whatever it was he felt out of him, exorcise it, wring it dry. She melted, completely under his overwhelming and intense love for her, and pressed her hand against his chest, drawing in breath once when necessary.

He lowered her on the bed leisurely, settling her into his lap. She guided his hand to her leg, her hand running through his curls, his hand stroking her thigh. When he lifted his mouth off hers, she felt lost, and caught at him, a short involuntary clasping at his shirt, but he had only moved to pull her closer (although, she thought, surely they couldn't get any closer, it felt to her already as if every inch of their bodies were touching) and his hand slid somehow into the nonexistent space between them and began to fumble with the fastenings of her clothes.

Her robe came open, and his hand slid inside and over the thin silk of the camisole she wore underneath, which provided no barrier at all to his touch. It felt to her exactly as if there were no material between his hand and her own naked skin as his fingertips slid around her body to trace her spin, the wings of her shoulder blades, the hollow at the back of her neck. It seemed suddenly extremely important that there be even less clothing between them, and with that objective in mind her hands flew to his shirt. Swiftly, she removed them, the coolness of his skin compressed harder with her warmness. His callused hands ran up her back, her refined beauty was everything he touched beneath all the clothing she wore.

His lips traveled down to her throat, and she clutched at him, her hands winding into his hair, which was impossibly fine and delicate and soft, as his mouth moved back up to hers, and all thought dissolved, or at least all ability to separate thoughts into cogent threads of consciousness. All that mattered now was his mouth on hers, his heart pounding against her own, and she wanted to drown in it, wanted to drown in him, in the hard grip of his arms on her back, the softness of his mouth, and the pressure of his body.

Three hours later, Elena sat in one of the huge cushioned window seats in her room, with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking out at the moon-drenched grounds. She was wrapped in one of her white nightgowns, her hair still tousled from the past few hours. She turned her head to look at Lancelot, asleep on his side in the huge bed, one arm curled around a pillow.

A slight smile was on his face, which looked strangely naked without his eyes opened. There was ample evidence to what they had just done. The room was strewn with articles of their clothing that lay wherever they landed, and her whole body was tingling pleasantly in memory of an all too physical experience. Her chest hitched once and her vision blurred through the prism of unsheds tears. Elena pressed her fist to her mouth as the teardrops fell from her eyelids and trickled down her cheeks.

"Elena?" came a soft, sleep-muddled voice. She looked around; he was just turning over, still mostly asleep, but he'd noticed her absence. He blinked and propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at her myopically. "What are you doing?" he murmured, rubbing at his eyes. Sleepy disorientation made him seem much younger than his 23 years, and for a moment Elena saw the young Sarmatian boy who the Romans took from his home for his service to the Roman Empire instead of the man she knew today. She shivered at the powerfully discordant image, then he sat all the way up and the grogginess left his face, shattering the impression.

She smiled. "Just thinking."

He slid to the edge of the bed and rose, wrapping a sheet around his hips as he came over and sat on the edge of the window seat next to her. She turned her face away so he wouldn't see the wetness there, but she wasn't fast enough. He peered at her, his brow furrowing, then reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand, wiping away the tears with his thumb. He smiled gently at her. "What are you thinking about that's making you cry?"

"The war we must face tomorrow. I need to grieve for a bit."

"How so?" He pondered in question.

"Well, we'll be heading off to fight the Saxons tomorrow, and who knows what will happen? Whether it ends up in victory or defeat, or terrifying deaths that cannot be prophesized or prevented?"

Lancelot understood her concern. "You are afraid I might die."

"And Arthur too. I am afraid all of you might. I know it sounds out of character for me, but I have never really fought together with those I cared about. I always feared that I would lose them."

"Elena, I chose to follow Arthur into battle. This is my choice, and if I die doing so, then so be it. I will die in battle, I am certain. Now hopefully, it will be a battle of my choosing. But, if it were this one, grant me one favor: don bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me." At these words, Elena sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong eastern wind."

"If you wish it so, then it will be done. But, I must confess, sometimes you frighten me so, Lancelot, with words like this. Burn you and cast your ashes to the east winds. How will Arthur make of that?"

"He will understand. If it is my desire, he will oblige to my wishes."

"I am still worried for you. And the rest of the knights. Whether it be your choice or not, this vast terrible army will come to destroy us."

"This land, this outpost, is the last thing on this earth that separates us from them. If we do not defend it, then our walls will crumble and fall, and this era as we know it will come to an end."

"You have decided to follow Arthur then? You will fight?"

"Yes. I will. I will follow him until there is nowhere else to follow. I will fight, and for the peace and freedom we have earned, and I will not stop fighting until we have settled that here in this land. I only hope that I am able to fight to the best of my possible abilities."

"It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." Elena said, a wisp of hair falling in her face. Lancelot nodded.

"Then this is my choice."

"As is mine. I will follow you to the battlefield."

Lancelot wanted to argue with her, but she was undoubtedly going to come, he knew, because once she made up her mind to do something, she did. And when she said something, she meant it. Moreover, he knew she was a positive asset to the knights. Her skill in archery was equal, perhaps greater than, the skill of men, and she fought fiercely for anything she believed in.

"Now I fear for your safety." Lancelot said, half-joking

Elena smiled coolly, "I am an able warrior. As long as I have something to fight for, then in no doubt, I will fight till the death. You have my word on it."


	7. The Battlefield

The phrase Elena quotes "My father used to say 'the first time you fall in love it changes your life forever, and no matter how hard you try, the feeling never goes away. And no matter what you do, they'll stay with you forever'." is from _The Notebook._

**Chapter 7: Battlefield**

The next morning, all of the knights gathered to the front of the castle. They were dressed properly in their full suits of armor, and ready with their weapons at hand. Horses well fed and energized, they trotted around the gate, waiting impatiently to go. Each knight was situated upon their horse, with Arthur at the head. Guinevere was already on her own horse, clad in her leather Woad outfit, her hair pinned up, and her body painted blue in the name of her gods. Several blades were sheathed around her waist and against her legs, and she had both ax and knife in hand. Arthur gave a wryly smile in the direction of Guinevere, and she returned one as well. They whispered proper 'I love you's' .

And lastly, Elena was propped onto her own horse, sitting tall. She had shed her gown for a sleeveless blouse and plain jean trousers. She was barefoot, and she swung her bow around her shoulders and carried the arrows in a leather strap across her back. Leather bands protected her wrists and forearms. Buckled around her waist, a scabbard protected her long sword, the hilt encrusted with a single round sapphire. She bore a twisted cord around her neck, and her hair was pinned up casually, strands of hair falling forehead into her face. Arthur looked down the line of knights and nodded. He raised his hand and the gate opened instantly.

"If this be our destiny, so be it! For as long as we have inhabited this earth, let our enemies know that as free men, we chose to make it so!" He drew Excalibur out of his scabbard and thrust it towards the Heavens. His knights followed suit, yelling and charging forward on their horses. With Arthur at the front, they formed two lines from him, to his left and right. Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, and Bors took his right, while Elena, Guinevere, Tristan and Dagonet took to Arthur left. The hoofs of their horses trampled the grass beneath them, a loud drumming sound echoing the hills and valleys of Camelot. Arthur suddenly held up his arm and everyone stopped. They were in an open field, with only the hill ahead of them as their obstacle. Guinevere trotted forwards to meet her husband.

"Arthur, what is it? Why have we stopped?"

"I feel something here." He replied simply, leading his horse round in circles. Then, he faced his knights- "Tristan, scout ahead and see what is beyond those hills."

The mysterious knight led his horse and his falcon towards the hill cautiously. All the others could do was wait. Guinevere rounded her horse towards Elena with a slight smile.

"Ah, the waiting of a war. It is much more intense than the actual war itself." Elena smiled, putting her bow across the horse's back.

Guinevere laughed, "So true. I just hope that this war will not cause too many casualties. We did not bring any healers here and the castle is awhile away. If any serious injury occurs, we will be in trouble."

"Not to worry, Guinevere. I have brought my remedies with me." Elena held up a leather sack. "I am a healer."

Guinevere eyes widened, "A healer? Why, the legends never said that you were a healer."

"Legends are often mistaken. But I know of all the herbs and medicines in this land, and their proper uses and mixtures. I can be able to whip up something quickly in cause of a fatality. Hopefully, we will be able to avoid it at all costs, of course."

"Yes, let us hope so." Guinevere sighed and looked to Arthur. Elena noticed the stolen glance between the two and smiled.

"You love him, do you not?"

Guinevere flushed, but nodded anyways. "Very much so. I cannot imagine a life without him." She spoke in all honesty.

"As with most people and their great loves. But tell me this, would you be willing to die for him?"

"Of course I would. I would protect him until certain death parts us."

"It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for ust so you know you love and are loved back. I know many remedies to heal wounds, but there is no remedy for love but to love more."

Guinevere looked away, biting down on her lip. She caught Arthur's eye once more and smiled, their tender looks becoming more and more of a habit for her. She turned back to Elena.

"One word frees us all the weight and pain of life, the war that rages on around us, and the wretchedness of this cruel world we both knows of. That word is love. In all my lifetime, this word has managed to keep me alive throughout all the battles I have fought and all the enemies I have slain. And this war will be no different."

Elena nodded gravely to the other woman, and dismounted her horse. She walked to the edge of the hill, where a cool strong breeze overtook her. Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes and let the wind gust alongside her. All at once, her hazel eyes flashed open.

"Merlin," she said, turning round to greet the wizard. His robes were a deep blue and he leaned on his staff, amused. Though his brow was creased and loomed over his eyes with age, the wizard had been nothing but a father figure to her throughout her entire life.

"Have you come to help him then? To help him win his war?"

"I am a warrior. I help anyone I can, be it not Roman or Briton, man or woman. My strength will guide him through this."

"Aye. This is your purpose, Elena. Purpose sees people through any obstacles, and through hell. Your purpose is not just to help this Roman, but to show him a deeper understanding of the world he resides."

"Merlin, you ramble endlessly and to what avail? Men cannot understand everything they are taught."

"You do not need to teach him. You just need to show him." He counseled. "Stay here, Elena, to help him. I fear terrible years coming for him and devastation of Camelot."

"I will, but not for you, Merlin. I will stay for Arthur, and for Lancelot. He needs me as much as Arthur does, perhaps even more."

Merlin nodded, "I know. That knight does not trust or forgive. He is barely human. He does not believe in any gods, nor does he know what he is here for. He does not believe in a destiny or fate. A broken arrogant man, some would say he is."

"What of my love for him then? Is it for nothing?"

"Love is not ours to command. You love this man, not because of who he is, but because of whom he makes you. The same goes for him."

A long-filled silence sliced through their conversation. The sound of hooves clip-clopped their way towards them. Elena looked up to see Arthur towering them both.

"Elena, we are ready. Tristan says that the Saxons are approaching near. We must prepare." She nodded to show her understanding, strolling back to her horse. Arthur turned to Merlin with a weary eye.

"What are you doing here, Merlin?"

"Only to observe a good battle between you and the Saxons." Merlin replied good-humoredly.

"Oh Merlin, you always know when to interfere. I am fighting for freedom here, and you wander into the picture with a blink of an eye."

"What do you take of Elena?" The wizard strayed away from Arthur's comments. The King looked to the Lady of Wales, who was now mounting her horse. His green eyes flickered back to the wizard.

"A figure of great beauty and wisdom. She is different from the rest of us, she knows of something we do not, and she possesses something we will never achieve." He said, in all truthfulness.

"Yes, she is something entirely unknown to this earth. But she is here for a purpose, Arthur, like the rest of us. She will aid you and walk you through the shadows of death and the fortress of life."

"Many men have done that for me--"

"Ah, no, Arthur, they have not. You believed they do, and they say they do, but truth be told, they do not and will never. Not even your beloved Guinevere will do such a thing. But Elena will. She will force through any such barrier to guide you. Don't you forget this Arthur, because when you do, it will be too late." Merlin turned to the left and vanished. Arthur stared at the spot where Merlin was last, brooding over what the old wizard just told him.

"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." Guinevere appeared at his side. Arthur spun to greet her, and smiled. She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek. "We should be going. Tristan says that the Saxon army is only a distance away."

Arthur said nothing, but nodded, following his wife back towards the rest of the knights. He perceived a platonic relationship between Elena and the rest of the knights, save Lancelot. Though the two were trying to hide their newfound affection, the King saw through their hidden curtain. He was not displeased; on the contrary, he found it much to his amusement and liking. He smirked as he watched Lancelot give Elena a much flirtatious glance, which she returned surreptitiously.

"Knights, and ladies," he acknowledged the two women, "it is time. Draw your weapons." They did so in turn, until the sharp clink of metal died away. The wind settled in, and an ominous gray sky rolled into view. Arthur drew in a sharp breath as he felt the ground rumbling underneath.

Elena observed her other comrades in action. They were posed, faces forward with determined looks and burning hatred. Her brow knitted as she saw the first Saxon come into view, a scout it was. Drawing an arrow to her bow quietly, she prepared for the first move.

The Saxons lined up on the other side of the hill. For a moment, the two armies waited in vain for the other to produce the first move. Elena felt Dagonet on her right shift uneasily, wanting to start the battle. True to form, he raised his ax and charged forward. Arthur groaned in vain as he watched his knight march ahead with his weapon high above his head. A Saxon followed Dagonet's move and dashed forward as well, equipped with sword and dagger. This Saxon was twice the size of Dagonet. If Arthur didn't do something, the formidable knight would surely be killed.

_Click_. Elena drew her full-size bow back effortlessly and held it there without the slightest shake. Her feat impressed Arthur's battle-hardened knights a great deal as they watched her first arrow fly across the field and hit the Saxon with deadly accuracy, just before he managed to knock Dagonet from his horse. This stirred a row with the Saxons and they marched forward until they were an arm's length from Arthur army.

"Dead accuracy, my lady." The leader of the Saxons, Cedric, grinned toothlessly. Elena retreated in disgust, clutching her bow tightly. "You are quite lucky you just killed a scout, or there would have been deadly consequences to follow. In fact, this scout was nothing but a pathetic excuse for a knight, so I thank you for diminishing him."

"I do not need your thanks, Cedric. Your blood would do good." Elena replied in her calm manner. The Saxon leader raised his eyebrows at the proposal, but said nothing.

"Well then, I'm afraid you are going to have to come and get it." Cedric said, raising his sword to strike. Just as he was about to bring it down on Elena, Lancelot drew out his own sword in the twinkling of an eye and collided with Cedric's. Elena didn't even flinch. This move stimulated the beginning of the war. Cedric's son, Cynric, thrust his sword towards Gawain, who immediately raised his axe and crushed Cynric's sword to the side, running off to join Bors. Arthur and Guinevere fought side-by-side, and within minutes, many of the Saxons were dead. Galahad shoved his shield against the bodies of the Saxons, slashing them across the field. Cynric caught up with Galahad halfway. Meanwhile, Tristan slew the Saxon scouts with his oriental-influenced, curved blade, all in swift motions. And Elena scouted the perimeter, slitting one Saxon's throat and plunging her dagger in another. She strung her bow and arrow smoothly each time she saw a potential threat come close to one of the knights.

Now, Galahad was the youngest of the Sarmatian knights, and took no pleasure in fighting or killing. He referred to the forced fifteen-year service as a "bad memory" and did not kill for pleasure, like his fellow knight Tristan did. Because of this, he was rather hesitant in his behavior to kill Cynric as they battled and this uncertainty delivered a sharp wound in his chest. He fell backwards, his head lolling on the ground and his weapon far within reach. Cynric grinned maliciously to himself, and joined his father in battling Lancelot. Elena was the first to notice Galahad fall. She quickly ran through the bodies of both Saxon and Sarmatian, and fell to Galahad's side. His short intakes of breaths alarmed her greatly, and without a moment's delay, she slid her arm under his and dragged him to the edge of the battlefield. Supporting his shoulders, she unbuttoned his armor to find the wound.

"Elena?" Galahad murmured, choking out blood. She brought a cloth to his lips and wiped off the blood, and then turned back to his injury. Her stomach rolled at the sight of his shirt, now saturated with red crimson blood. Shaking fingers pulled out the bottom three buttons and suddenly the wound was exposed to the cool wind. Galahad closed his eyes at the sight of the tear in his skin, dribbled in blood, and clenched his teeth against the pain. Gathering all his remaining strength, he lifted his head to look at Elena. "Elena."

"Shh, don't speak, Galahad. It'll make the pain much worse. Your wound is very deep, and you're losing a lot of blood. Luckily, I brought some remedies that might help. Hold still," she commanded, taking her bag and bringing out fresh bandages and healing remedies. Reaching into her satchel, she produced several glass bottles and three small pouches, creating an array of color.

"We must bandage your wound," she spoke in a gentle voice. "We'll cleanse it with some water, coat the wound with the mixture of herbs I brought, and wrap it with the bandages." She carefully began to dab at the wound, only provoking the slightest twitch from Galahad, whose head was lolling back. She continued to clean until she was satisfied and reached for the smallest bottle. Uncorking it, the bottle erupted a vapor of purple scented steam, and she tilted the bottle to a piece of cloth, letting the liquid soak in. As she pressed it to the wound, Galahad twitched again.

"I'm sorry if it is a bit painful, but it should help." She said. The Sarmatian felt a slight twinge go up his arm as she applied another mixture to his arm, but sat in silence. When she had gone through all the bottles, she began meticulously wrapping his torso in bandages.

"You love him, don't you?" Galahad asked, repeating the same question Elena had asked Guinevere about an hour ago. The Roman-Briton snapped her head up to look at the injured knight.

"What do you mean?"

"Lancelot. You love him." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

Elena bowed her head, pinning the bandages in place. "I do not know what you mean, Galahad."

"Yes, you do. I know. I can tell when my Sarmatian brother has fallen. I can see he has fallen for you. And you as well, my lady, you have fallen for him too."

She looked into his eyes, stunned. Flushed, she smiled slightly. "I cannot deny it any longer. Yes, Galahad, I do. I love him very much."

"And he? Does he love you back?"

"I do not know. He is unpredictable, a man I know not of. Whether he loves me or not, I do not know completely. But I'll tell you this much. My father used to say 'the first time you fall in love it changes your life forever, and no matter how hard you try, the feeling never goes away. And no matter what you do, they'll stay with you forever'." He was right. I know now, whatever I do next, wherever I go, Lancelot will always be besides me, whether I want him to or not."

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. Most people have one or the other. You have both. You are one of the luckier ones when it comes to finding true love."

She was touched by the injured Sarmatian's words. All around her, she heard the cries of defeat, the painful agony of death, and the calls of revenge, but right here, she was immersed in the profound truth of love.

"Thank you Galahad," She finally managed to say. "Now lay back and rest. We will have to tend to your wounds when we go back to the castle. But for now, that should stop the blood from spilling out." She helped him redress his armor and positioned him so that he was comfortable and hidden from the eyes of their enemies. She surveyed the battlefield and noticed to her horror; Lancelot was slowly fading from battling Cynric. She immediately ran to his side, and just as Cynric raised his sword, intending to kill the fallen Sarmatian, Elena raised her own sword and clashed it with the Saxon's.

A few swipes and she managed to knock Cynric into another Saxon. The two of them toppled over each other. Elena turned her attention to Lancelot, who had blood running down a side of his face. He stood up shakily, checking over the battlefield. With a slight cry, he grabbed her shoulders and said-- "Elena, where is Galahad?"

"He was wounded by Cynric, and is left with a deep wound in his chest, but I tended to him as soon as I saw him fall. He is alright, and will make it as long as we get him back to the castle." She replied.

"He is alright? You are sure?"

"Yes, he'll be just fine." Elena reassured him. At this moment, Cynric had recovered from his fall and brushed himself up. Ruthlessly taking the bow and arrow from a passing Saxon, he strung the arrow and aimed it for Elena. Lancelot, upon noticing the fleeting arrow coming towards them, grabbed Elena and pulled her away, the arrow crossing inches from contact. However, it still managed to pierce her skin and blood slowly trickled from her open wound. The Sarmatian knight pulled her away to the edge of the battlefield, surveying her wound with fear.

"Elena! Are you alright?" The woman nodded and produced her cloth. She pressed it against her wound, and within minutes, the cloth was stained red.

"I will be fine, Lancelot. It is but a small wound." She assured him. Lancelot shifted his gaze to the battle, observing his comrades in action. It seemed that Dagonet was having some trouble against a broad Saxon. He pointed this out to Elena, who straightaway shot an arrow through the battle and knocked out the Saxon. Dagonet gave both of them a hearty thumbs-up, then ran to help Bors.

The battle lasted for another thirty minutes before Cedric retreated from the battle with his son and a few other Saxons. They ran over the hill and disappeared from sight. Arthur was now surveying each of his knights and the fallen Saxons before them. Except for a few cuts and scraps, each of his knights seemed to be fighting fit, and he rounded his horse to the side, where he saw Lancelot and Elena talking.

The knights followed Arthur as he approached Lancelot and Elena. His best friend looked perfectly fine, save some blood running down the side of his face, and the Lady of Wales was practically glowing, even as blood oozed from her exposed wound. "Is everyone alright?" Arthur asked. A few murmurs of "yes" repeated, and Arthur was satisfied.

"Galahad is wounded." Elena said, motioning to the sleeping knight. Arthur bent down and checked his conditions, while Elena explained what happened and how she tended to his wounds. Convinced that Galahad was not severely injured, he managed to deliver a smile.

"Well, brave knights and ladies, we have done our deed. The Saxons have been defeated for now. Let us go home." Everyone mounted the horses, except Lancelot and Elena, who supported Galahad to Arthur's horse. Elena swung herself on her own horse and gripped the reins of Galahad horse. Once Lancelot was on his white mare, they trotted back to Camelot with a victory in their hearts.


	8. Love Actually is All Around

The quote "General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there--fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, old friends. If you look for it, I've got a feeling you'll find that love actually is all around." comes from _Love Actually_.

**Chapter 8: Love Actually is all around**

Back at the castle, the healers tended to Galahad's wound, although they claimed it wasn necessary, as Elena had done an excellent and professional job of bandaging his wounds. Arthur, pleased that Galahad would return to proper health by the next few days, hauled Guinevere back to their room. The other knights settled on going down to the pub, but Lancelot had something else in mind.

He pulled Elena aside while the rest of the knights clambered down the stone steps. "Care to join me at the archery court?"

She smiled and darted ahead, Lancelot following close behind. The archery court was empty, and they used this to their advantage. The practice targets were quite a distance away, but equipped with more than enough arrows and a bow, the two warriors easily aimed for their targets. Elena found that Lancelot was just as good at archery as he was with his two swords, not much to her surprise. His arrows came well within the center, but it was Elena's arrows that shot with incredible precision.

Lancelot raised his eyebrows as he watched Elena's arrow hurtle through the air and land with exactness. "Quite the skills, my lady."

She grinned and lowered her bow. "You as well, Sir."

Lancelot took her in his arms and kissed her, his lips warm and moist against hers. He murmured something in her ear, which she replied in a chuckle. She placed her hands on his face, demonstrating her strength, and getting carried away as she leaned in, not resisting his pull. Their movements boasted an upsurge of affection, while their targets and arrows were abandoned. He wanted her as close to him as possible.

"Hmm Lancelot, perhaps we should go to the pub. Everyone will be wondering where we are, and I'd hate for them to find us here like this."

"Wouldn't Bors be delighted if he found out?" He joked, gathering the arrows and stowing them back into their compartments. He laid the bows back on the table, and then drew Elena into his embrace. She kissed him feverishly once more and they proceeded down the stone steps. The pub sounded rowdy, and the smell of ale was apparent, along with the occasional shouts of triumph or defeat. "Sounds like they are wagering again." Lancelot groaned. Elena only laughed and broke apart from his grasp as they entered.

Gawain was the first to spot the two. He motioned them to join him and Tristan at the bar. "Lancelot! Elena!" He raised his cup, spilling drops of ale on his shirt. "Come on, there plenty to drink!"

Lancelot denied his friend's invitation, but Elena grinned mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "I'll try some." She replied, accepting a tall glass of ale. She raised her cup, toasted Gawain and Tristan, and then held it to her lips, eyes closed. She drowned the glass in one gulp, banged the glass on the counter, and exhaled a long breath. The men stared at him in admiration, and applauded loudly. Lancelot smiled.

"Where'd you learn to drink like that?"

Elena smiled as she followed her drink with some water. "The boys in my village used to drink every Friday night. I'd join them too rarely, but when I did, they'd challenge me to a drink. I know they do so to show how tough they are compared to women, but I'd always prove them wrong in one drink. I haven't drunk for years now, but it was quite amusing watching everyone's expressions."

"How about you sing to us, my lady?" Gawain interjected. Lancelot raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. He didn't know whether or not Elena could sing, or whether she wanted to or not. Just as he was about to reproach Gawain about it, Elena began to sing a sweet, harmonious melody. Her voice came out clear and musical, very easy on the ear as everyone in the pub turned their attention to her. It was an old tune that was hardly sung anymore, but was very popular when it was. When she finished her song, the pub erupted. Elena was given a standing ovation.

"That was very mellow, my lady." Tristan smiled.

"Yes, quite so." Lancelot winked at her. Elena only smiled back.

"Is there anything you can't do?" Gawain stared in high regard.

"I don't think so. She can do anything." Tristan replied.

Elena laughed, "Oh, I doubt it. I am not perfect."

Lancelot shook his head, "No, you are absolutely flawless, like something out of a fairy tale." She reddened, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, so quickly that no one could distinguish it. Subsequently, she sat down in the empty chair besides Gawain, with Lancelot hovering over.

"So, Gawain, I have heard that you tell amazing stories. I'd like to hear one, if it is not too much trouble."

"Not at all, my lady. I'd be happy to." Gawain replied, and launched himself into a high-tale adventure about one of the battles he partook, exaggerating a few bloody settings and the overall context of the story. However, Elena was fascinated with the quest, and she listened eagerly. When he finished, Elena was the first to burst into applause. At this, Lancelot noticed something entirely different about her that he had not seen yet. She had faultless character. She was one of those rare people who grew through experience if they met life honestly and courageously.

Bors came over at one point with one of his children and a glass of ale. He presented Gilly to Elena, and the two of them immediately became close. Bors laughed as he watched Elena teach Gilly a sword move. Then, he looked at his fellow three knights-- "Entertaining the lady?"

"We sure are." Gawain laughed. Tristan and Lancelot followed suit, and soon Bors joined the cluster of friends for more ale and stories.

The Sarmatian knight grew somewhat wearyas the night wore on and he found himself constantly falling into sleep. Elena gently tapped his shoulder, waking him up from his short-lived nap.

"Lancelot, should we go? You are very tired."

"Hmm" was all the knight could reply as he shuffled his way out of the pub. They made slow progress, as Lancelot was exhausted and could not find his feet to move, but Elena didn't mind. In fact, she rather enjoyed being in Lancelot's company.

"Your friends are quite entertaining." Elena said as they turned from the archery court.

"Are they? Ha! They were trying to impress you, or in my case, fancying you in hopes of a romantic night." Elena could hear the dripping sarcasm in his voice, and the skepticism he presented of his friends. She frowned slightly in the darkness.

"Do you not trust them?" Her suspicions were about to be proven.

"Not with situations like this," he replied, "they are impish when it comes to this. I know they recognize my affection for you, but they want nothing more than to rob me of it."

"What about me? Do you think that I will have them do such a thing?" Though she felt frustrated, her voice was still very calm.

Lancelot hesitated. "Now, don't go flying off the handle, but you are a woman and women tend to get fed up with one man for awhile, and when something new comes along, they usually hold onto it."

Elena stopped walking and glared at him. "So, you are saying you do not trust me yet."

"I do not trust the man who finds everything good, the man who finds everything evil and still more the man who is indifferent to everything. Trust is an inadequate measure of understanding someone, and there are only some who truly deserve my trust." Lancelot shrugged.

"You do not trust me then Lancelot?"

"Forgive me, my lady, but we have only known each other for a few days. It seems unreasonable to trust someone I barely know."

"I think it isn't because you do not trust me, but because you do not trust yourself. A man who doesn't trust himself can never truly trust anyone else." She explained.

"I do trust myself!" he retorted. "I simply do not trust those not of worth." His tone was annoyed, and he didn't understand why she was getting frustrated about.

"And I am not of worth to be trusted? Lancelot, you saw me out on the battlefield. I tended to your friend, who I barely know, but I helped him because he was injured and he is your friend. And you let me join Arthur's ranks and talk with him, your best friend. How could you let me unless you trusted me?"

"I knew you would be a great asset to the defenses. I have heard of your legendary archery and the way you handle a sword. Everyone knows of this. Besides, Arthur was our commander. He could protect himself."

"You really did not trust me, did you? After all this, I thought you would have. Let me tell you this much, Lancelot. It is impossible to go through life without trust. That is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself. If you would simply open your eyes and trust your friends and me, they will be true to you. If you treat them greatly, they will show themselves great."

"If I had to trust anyone, it would only be myself because then no one could betray or hurt me!" He blurted out. Elena felt her shoulders sag with empathy. She lingered her hand on his cheek.

"Do not think for a moment that I would possibly dare to betray or hurt you. I could never do that to anyone I love." There, she had said it. She had proclaimed her unselfish love for him.

Lancelot had realized this as well. "You love me?"

Elena sighed heavily, her hand dropping back to her side. "Yes."

"How could you love me in such a short time? It takes a great deal of patience, time, and understanding to actually come to love a person."

"Perhaps in your way, it does. Or maybe it is because I love myself. Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You have to love yourself to get anything done in this world, and to fall in love with someone else. It just happens this way."

"How it is that you can love so easily in this world of hatred and greed?" Lancelot asked after a long pause.

Elena didn't know what to say. How could she word something like this, everything that defined her, to a man she had just confessed her love to? "General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there--fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, old friends. If you look for it, I've got a feeling you'll find that love actually is all around." She edged away from the Sarmatian, her gown fluttering like lapping waves upon the sand. She walked away from him.

Lancelot didn't know what to do. He couldn't move, nor could he think, and found himself rooted to the grass, staring after Elena. His mind replayed the last few days, since he met her, and he realized how off beam he had been. It wasn't true. He did trust her, more than he took for granted. He raced across the field just as she was about to cross into the castle. He leaped in front of her, grabbed her shoulders and kissed her.

Wounding his hand down her back, he noted her intuitive take over her astonishment and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Their intimacy brought them to a more comfortable, undisturbed setting. Lancelot broke off his kiss for a mere second, looked into her eyes and stated frankly-- "I love you too." It was the moment of their lives, caught up in the reality of life and love. Elena's eyes gleamed as brightly as the stars in the Heavens. She placed both hands on Lancelot's face and kissed him again, more passionately, more feverishly, more lovingly.

"I love you," he repeated as they broke apart. "I love you."

"As do I." She said, taking his hand in hers. "More than I should."

Lancelot leaned forward and kissed her temple, smirking. "Oh, already regretting me?"

Elena pulled him closer, standing on tiptoe so they were of even height. Her eyes locked with his, his curls tingling on her forehead, and her pink mouth relentlessly tracing his own. "No, I couldn't. Not you. Never you, Lancelot."

A look of seriousness traced her face. The Sarmatian knight knew of nothing to say, so he kissed her once more. Her neck arched, her head falling back so that she stared wonderingly at the stars of the night, as his mouth moved down the pale column of her neck, her hands tangled restlessly in his unruly mop of hair. He took a breath and seemed about to speak; she dragged his lips back to hers, cutting off his words. She angled her head towards him, both of them bound up by a strange urgency that made her pull him closer, small sounds escaping her throat, and made him kiss her harder so she could scarcely breathe. Their positions shifted as Lancelot bent quickly, slipped his arm behind her knees and picked her up. She turned her head without breaking the kiss, holding onto him with one arm around his shoulders, as he carried her to the castle.

"Lancelot...Lancelot" The only sentence she mumbled all the way to her room. He lowered her on the bed and kissed her intensely, to his own willpower and strength. He disrobed her swiftly, running his hands through her soft hair, while she unbuckled his shoulder plates and his outer armor. Partly dressed, the two continued their fanatical nature...

"Oh dear God!" A voice called out. Both of them stopped. They knew that voice very well. It was familiarly etched into their brains, a voice that couldn't be forgotten- Arthur's voice.

Lancelot lifted his head and pulled the curtain so that he could see his friend's face clearly. Arthur looked absolutely shocked. His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open in distraction. The Sarmatian knew his friend was searching for an answer to this untimely matter, but finding nothing, was baffled by their midnight rendezvous. Nevertheless, as Lancelot continued to watch his friend's stunned look, he couldn't help but spot a hint of amusement. Frowning, the Sarmatian stood up.

"Arthur, I can explain the situation." Lancelot stated. The King folded his arms, and leaned against the doorframe, waiting for him to begin the explanation. "As you can see, Elena and I have performed a convoluted situation here. But it is not for our entertainment, Arthur, it is only because," and here, he turned to Elena and smiled, "we have fallen inadvertently into love."

The Roman didn't change facial expressions, but his features did seem to soften. He bowed his head for a moment, musing. Lancelot and Elena traded uneasy glances. Finally, Arthur lifted his head-- "And?"

Lancelot was thrown off-track. This was the last response he expected to come out of Arthur's mouth. He had predicted even the worst possible outcomes, but this was the furthest from his mind.

"What do you mean 'and'?" Elena echoed.

"I mean--- are we hearing wedding bells? Any momentous occasions we should look forward to?" His green eyes were twinkling.

Elena and Lancelot traded bewildered looks. Wedding bells? "Well, Arthur, I don't suppose we are looking forward to them any moment soon," Lancelot caught Elena's eye, reaching for her hand and squeezing it, "but we will not disappoint you too soon. I will not guarantee you anything, Arthur. However, if things move accordingly, who knows?" He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Elena exchanged a matching one in return. Arthur, on the other hand, was not only smiling. He was practically jumping up and down like a five-year-old boy, as though he had just received news that Christmas had come earlier by five months. It was not a gesture Lancelot had seen before, nor had he ever seen Arthur act in this manner either.

He raced over to them, embraced them both heartily, and ran out of the room. Caught in this heated rush, both Elena and Lancelot quickly picked up their discarded garments and dressed, then they raced out the door after Arthur.

"Where do you think he's headed off to?" Elena asked, looking from right to left down the corridor.

"Most likely Guinevere. He tells her everything first." Lancelot pointed to their right. Just as they were about to head off in the direction, Elena pulled Lancelot closer to her and smiled playfully.

"You really hear those wedding bells?" She asked coyly.

Lancelot brushed his lips against hers and whispered, "They are ringing louder than ever, my lady. And yours?"

"Clear as Gawain's wineglass." She laughed. Lancelot grinned, intertwined his hands with hers, and took off running. Narrowing a corner, Guinevere burst out in front of them.

"Lancelot! Elena! Arthur has told me of your rather adventurous and romantic rendezvous which he mistakenly dropped in on," Guinevere dropped a hint of a smile. "And for that, I must apologize."

"We are sorry too that he had to see it." Lancelot laughed as Arthur came round, joining the three of them. Guinevere instinctively reached out for his hand, and the King and Queen beamed at their blushing friends.

"Well, now, shall we inform the others?" Arthur suggested.

"Arthur!" Elena and Lancelot exclaimed at the same time.

"Alright then, it'll be our little secret." He replied, still laughing, and walked towards his rooms. Guinevere followed, shaking her head, but amused. Elena and Lancelot glanced at each other for a brief second before the Sarmatian bent down to kiss her.

"Lancelot, tell me this. When it is over, will you return to Sarmatia?"

The knight gave her a baffled look. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. When the war is finally over, will you return to Sarmatia? Will you?"

He did not know what to make of her question, nor did he know how to reply. He had promised them fifteen years ago that he would return home as soon as the war was over and his papers were filed. But now, the brave knight didn know what to do. He wanted to go, but didn't wish to leave either. Home was spilt into two directions, Sarmatia and Camelot. Two completely different places, but with one similar aspect, there was someone to love him in both of these two homes.

Lancelot fingered the amulet his sister gave him and sighed heavily. Elena was waiting patiently for the knight's answer, which she herself was debating over with. She understood his hesitation to answer, his unwillingness to leave Camelot but his desire to return home. It was very obvious. Lancelot was torn between two worlds.

"My dear knight, you are spilt into two decisions. To stay would be with your oldest and dearest friend, your knights, and your life for the past fifteen years. To leave would be going back to the people who loved you first and foremost. It is a tough decision, I know, and you do not need to answer me straightaway. I am sorry if I have touched a sensitive subject."

The Sarmatian sighed with deep satisfaction. He fingered through Elena's locks, letting them run through his fingers like silk sheets. "You are right, Elena. This is something I have pondered for many months. Whether to stay or leave could change my life forever. Both have their thrill and also their sorrows."

"I understand, Lancelot. But for now, you are staying. Why?"

"Arthur needs me to fight his war, and I will. You and I are not alike in this outlook, Elena. We do not have the same purpose to stay. I stay for Arthur. You stay for something that will never come." Lancelot explained.

"Some people would call that freedom. That is what we fight for. Our land, our people, the right to choose our destiny. Yet, you yourself know freedom comes with a heavy price. So you see, Lancelot, you and I are much alike." Hazel flickered through the torchlight.

"Sometimes even I wonder what I'm still doing here. What I have been fighting for is not my reason. Galahad once said to me, 'One is left with the horrible feeling after fifteen years in this service now that war settles nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as losing one.' I never put much thought into his words, after all, we fight because we have to, and after winning, and it always feels glorious. But now that I think about it, Galahad is right. Winning or losing a war is the same. There is nothing to it that is glorious about war, whether we win it or not."

Elena nodded perceptively and laid her head on her knight's shoulder. An incredible sense of warmth and security engulfed her. A sudden thought possessed her mind. "Tell me, Lancelot. If we are married, will you dance with me? I find dancing very agreeable. Why can you not say what is in your head?"

"Why can you not stop saying what is in yours? Why must you lead, when I want to lead? If I want to dance I will ask you to dance. If I want to speak I open my mouth and speak. Everyone is forever plaguing me to speak further. Why? What good is it to tell you are in my every thought from the time I wake? What good can come from my saying that I sometimes cannot think clearly or do my work properly? What gain can rise of my telling you the only time I feel fear as others do is when I think of you in harm? That is why I am in this corridor-- I fear for your safety before all others. And yes, I will dance with you on our wedding night."

She smiled. Whispering a simple "thank you", she floated down the passage and back into her room. The candle shone unsteadily as she unclothed her robes. Just as she envisaged, Lancelot approached the room after awhile. He watched her as the silky contents were removed from her body very slowly, and then he could see her bare back. She stopped for a second, knowing he was behind her, and waiting for him. The knight drew near, lining her throat with kisses. Elena moaned in small gasps of air.

"I love you." He whispered, three single words that captured her.

"I love you too." She replied, linking her arms around his neck. "Lancelot, wherever you go, promise me you will take me with you."

"I will. I never want you out of my sight." Lancelot pledged. "Let us get some rest tonight. It has been a long and eventful day."


	9. Capture

**Chapter 9: Capture**

The night drew long and dark, a thunderstorm was heading its way back into Camelot tonight. Dark clouds rolled into sight and rain pelted its way onto the earth. Nights like this were the perfect opportunity for an invasion. The guards were assembled inside the warm castle, stationed at each entrance. However, seldom did the guards patrol inside the castle, and one by one, they fell asleep to the pleasant, temperate change.

Masked, armed men drew near the castle in a huddle. Their leader, a brawny giant, towered over the others and spoke in the roughest voice. "Remember, Arthur is a tall, dark-haired knight. He should be sharing a bed with a woman, brunette. Do not harm him in any way other than knocking him unconscious. Cedric says he needs him in one piece for now. Search every room and be quiet! This is the perfect and only chance we have and if you dare ruin it, Cedric will not be pleased." They filed into the castle silently, each man wandering into a different direction.

Their shadows pierced the stillest time of the night, traced on the dark walls. However, no one saw them for everyone was sound asleep in the castle. A young Saxon approached the east wing of the castle, a long dagger shaking in his hand. Cautiously, he opened one door to expose an obvious knight, his snores matching with the thunder bolting outside. The Saxon closed the door gently and moved to the next. Nothing. Then the next. He had little hope of finding Arthur, for the castle was enormous and every corridor was long and dark. Sighing, the Saxon reached another corridor, this one filled with torchlights.

He opened the first door to his right. His eyes adjusted to the figures sleeping on the silk-curtained bed. Indeed, a dark-haired knight was resting on the bed with a brown-haired lady. The Saxon crept towards the bed and in a sudden movement, pressed his dagger against the man's neck. "Are you Arthur?" he hissed.

Lancelot stared at the Saxon rebelliously. His mind was spinning with endless parades of questions. How on earth did Saxons manage to get inside the walls of Camelot? What was he to do? If he answered no, his chances of living were still slim to nothing and he did not have his weapons in hand. If he answered yes, the Saxon would most likely kill him on the spot. And what about Elena? He feared for her safety, even as she slept calmly into the night, unaware of the danger lurking in the room.

"I am Arthur." He answered, shutting his eyes close. The least he could do for his best friend was profess a false identity. If the Saxons captured Arthur, Camelot would most certainly be doomed and well within the reach of Saxon hands.

A second later, the handle of the dagger slammed into the side of his head and everything faded to black.

Morning roused Elena warily. She rubbed her forehead, trying to wipe out the awful nightmare she had. It was one of her more dreadful dreams, where everything seemed so accurate and so believable that she feared that her dream had somehow managed to slip out of her mind and come to life in front of her. She tilted her head to see Lancelot, but when all she saw was the shape where his body had previously lain and the tangled sheets at the foot of the bed, she panicked.

_No, don't panic now. Perhaps he is in the bathroom or the kitchen. Do not panic until you are sure_. She told herself. Jumping out of bed, she quickly dressed in robes of periwinkle blue. Just as she was about to leave to check the kitchens, she noticed beads of blood on the floorboards beside the side where Lancelot slept. And muddy footsteps, still fresh, led a trail from Lancelot's side of the bed to the door.

"Oh my god." She whispered to herself. Intruders. **Saxons**.

"Arthur! Arthur! Get up!" She yelled down the hall, attracting attention from the many late-sleepers of the night. Gawain poked his head out halfway as he saw Elena dash by his room. Perplexed at her behavior, he followed her. Bors, Dagonet Galahad, and Tristan were quick to follow as Elena fled by their rooms too.

"What is the matter?" Bors asked in wonder as they followed Elena in vain. His fellow knights had no answer to his question, so they quickened their pace to catch up to Elena.

The King had heard the commotion from the moment Elena voice echoed through the castle. Guinevere, still groggy from sleep, peered through a shade of darkness. She moaned and rolled over in bed. "Arthur, what is all that uproar?" Her husband shrugged and opened the door, poking his head out to examine the racket. Elena reached him just in time.

"Arthur, Lancelot has been captured!" She shrieked. This was enough to stir Guinevere from sleep. She bolted from bed and in a second, was next to her husband, looking at Elena with wide, disbelievingly eyes.

"What did you say? Lancelot is captured?"

"Yes. I woke up this morning and he was not there. That already drew suspicion to me. Then I noticed blood on the floorboard and footprints. An intruder must have slipped in the castle and taken him. A Saxon." Her voice was breaking, and tears welled up, obscuring her vision.

The other knights looked at each other in apprehension. Lancelot taken? It seemed impossible, but they knew Elena would tell no such lie. Bors was the first to speak-- "But why would anyone wish to capture Lancelot? He isn't much use to them." His tone was not offending, only questioning. "Why didn't they kill him instead? If they had to take anyone, they would have taken Arthur." Tristan hid behind the dark shadows of the wall, studying the baffling faces of his comrades.

Arthur turned back to the faces of his knights, realizing why his enemies had kidnapped Lancelot. "I think I know. Knights, how would you describe my appearance in simple words?"

"Tall, dark-haired," Galahad answered easily. It took him a moment to realize the importance of his words. "Like Lancelot." He whispered, the sudden shock hitting him.

"They meant to take me." Arthur whispered silently, avoiding eye contact with any of the knights. Wordlessly, he thought _how I wished they did. Oh, how I wish I could trade places with him right now._

Elena's face paled to a ghostly white. She stumbled against the wall, trying to find something to hold her balance, but nothing caught her. Her vision became blurred in a procession of unwanted colors. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought about Lancelot, trapped in the hands of the deadly violent Saxons. The all likelihood of him surviving in Saxon hands was very unlikely. If the Saxons did find out he was not Arthur, they would torture him nevertheless, until the Sarmatian could hold out no longer. And if they found out his true identity, his torment would be much worse. Either way, the knight had little chance of living.

"Is he dead?" Bors asked, his voice very quiet. They all knew the seriousness of the situation.

No one uttered a word. Just like Elena, they all understood his slim chance of living. The poor knight could be lying dead on a hard dungeon floor even as they spoke. But no one wanted to say that. It was too upsetting to think about.

"He's better off dead." Arthur stressed, his heart heavy. His brow was dripping with hesitant perspiration. Off to his left, Guinevere was hushed, her concentration focused entirely on the others.

"Don't speak of it that way, Arthur." Elena replied. She was still optimistic. She wanted to believe that Lancelot was still alive, clinging to the last thread of hope that his friends might find him and rescue him.

"But it is the truth. You know that Elena. We all do." Arthur said.

"Let me gather an accompaniment for a search rescue. At least let us try to consider the chance of him alive. I will not rest to stop looking for him until I actually see his body in front of him, departed." She firmly stated. Arthur bit his lower lip. He had considered going to find Lancelot, but he didn't even know where to start. They had no idea where the Saxons resided and where they camped. For all they knew, the Saxons could be in Rome. However, Elena was clearly hopeful and the King knew all they really needed was a surge of hope and a horse-drawn wagon.

"Alright then, here is what we need..."


	10. Getting Lancelot Back

Author's Note: Sorry for the horribly long delay. In between school and a million other things to do, I could never find a time to post. Therefore, I'm going to treat all my readers to at least 4 new chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 10: Getting Lancelot Back**

An hour later, Arthur led his knights, his lady, and Elena out of the castle and towards the western part of Camelot. The knights were stationed around the horse-drawn carriage, in which Arthur, Elena, and Guinevere assembled, conversing over a detailed map and marking out a plan to save Lancelot.

"Perhaps if we take this route, when I traveled to Camelot, I passed by Macchiato. I have heard word that the Saxons settled there, which is partially why I decided not to lodge there for the night. We have to consider all our alternatives, and this is the most likeliest one." Elena explained her suggestion.

Arthur nodded, "Yes, that sounds reasonable. We will stop there first and check. If not there, we will stop somewhere else. We will keep going until we have found Lancelot." _Or what's left of him_. Arthur thought sadly.

* * *

The ground was moving, and there was only one explanation for that. Lancelot opened his eyes to reveal a darkened night. Or at least, it seemed like night, although he had the feeling of having slept for hours. 

Everything was moving. The Sarmatian shook his head in attempt to rid himself of his shaky and tired state. But once he did, he regretted it almost instantly. A cauterizing thrusting pain came to his head like pure agony. His head felt like splitting open in two, and it was all knight could do but cry aloud in shock. He bit down his lip hard, to suppress the tears. Moaning, Lancelot reached up his hand to touch his head, but stopped halfway. He couldn't move his hands. They were bound tightly to something behind him. Confused, he lifted his head gingerly to observe his surroundings. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been captured.

Suddenly, the ground stopped moving and his world filled with bright light. Lancelot groaned and turned away from the sudden outbreak. "He's awake." Said a gruff voice. A Saxon voice, Lancelot knew.

"Better for him if he hadn't," another voice, this one more softer yet sinister-like, replied. "He's in for quite a ride." The voice laughed humorlessly. Lancelot dared to open his eyes and groaned again. This time however, it was not sorely on account of the blinding pain. He realized that he was lying in a baggage cart, and past the two burly figures standing above him, he could make out the silhouette of an entire Saxon army. The enemy had captured him

* * *

That night, they camped in a nearby village just ten miles from Macchiato. Arthur was inattentively polishing Lancelot twin blade when footsteps outside his tent alerted him. 

"Who's there?" He asked roughly, reaching for his sword.

The flap fell back and a second later, Elena's head could be seen. "May I come inside for a moment, Arthur?"

"Yes. Do come in." He replied, lowering his weapon. She stooped down beside him and watched as the King return to his polishing. Sighing, the Lady of Wales reached for one of Lancelot's blades.

"It is a beautiful sword. I could have imagined this sword belonging with Lancelot." Elena said.

"It was a gift for him. His father gave it to him before he left Sarmatia fifteen years ago." Arthur pronounced.

"No, I don't believe so," Arthur gave her a bewildered look and opened his mouth to contradict, but Elena simply moved her hand across his lips to quiet him. "I have heard you. You said his father presented it for Lancelot, but that is not true. The sword always chooses the bearer, never the other way round. Why do you think Nimue gave you Excalibur? It is only because Excalibur wishes to belong to you. This is the same with Lancelot's blades. He fits them; they are his personality, his spirit, his everything. These blades represent who he is, and that is only because these blades chose him as their carrier."

Arthur did not know what to say. Looking down at Lancelot's blade, he could practically see Lancelot's face gleaming at him. The familiar brown curls, the proud and arrogant eyes, and the sneering smile he gave to his enemies. Arthur closed his eyes, whispering the knight's name.

"He lives." Elena whispered. Arthur snapped his eyes open and looked at her in uncertainty.

"How do you know? How do you know he is not dead, withered in the filthy hands of our Saxon enemies? How do you believe all this?"

"I do not know if he lives. I do not his condition at all. But I do know that whether or not he lives, he will always exist in here," She placed her hand over Arthur's pounding heart. "He lives in you. He lives in us all."

Arthur glanced at her in absolute wonder. He brushed his hand gently on Lancelot's blade, half-smiling. Then, he turned to Elena-- "How is it that you have faith in everything that most of us do not hold?"

"What I am actually saying is that we need to be willing to let our intuition guide us, and then be willing to follow that guidance directly and fearlessly. Faith is, at one and the same time, absolutely necessary and altogether impossible, but if you live a life without faith in something, that is too narrow a space to live."

"That is all but true, my lady. I do put the finest line of my faith in knowing that Lancelot is still alive, still waiting for us to fetch him. And I will draw this faith to him so that he knows we are on our way."

"Arthur, if you think we can save him, we can. Faith is necessary to victory. But for now, I shall let you rest. It has been a long and tiresome trip. Guinevere shouldn't be long, we will look over the maps tomorrow."

"Thank you Elena." Arthur said, as she was about to open the flap.

"You are very welcome." She smiled and left. Arthur continued to stare down at Lancelot blades, unaware of Guinevere standing in the crevice of his flap. She watched her husband examining his best friend's weapons, tears shallow in his eyes. Gliding next to him, she kissed his cheek softly and drew back. Arthur slowly turned his head to meet her, unrecognizing his own wife and uncaring if it was an enemy.

"Guinevere," his lips felt so dry as he uttered her name. The Woad warrior ran her hand down his face, hushing him.

"I know you mourn for him. I do too." She whispered.

"He is not dead yet, Guinevere. I don't believe he is." Arthur spoke with all honesty. Guinevere gazed at him sorrowfully.

"We all like to believe that too, Arthur. But the chances of Lancelot surviving are very slim. You know that. We all do. Why are you trying to base everything on lost hope?"

"I like to believe that we are following destiny. And destiny has not given me a sign to prove that Lancelot is dead. Therefore, I will not stop looking until I have found him." Arthur avowed. Guinevere sighed heavily.

"If that is what drives you, then I will follow." She declared, her lips finding their way to Arthur . Abandoning Lancelot's blades and the flickering candlelight burning in their tent, Arthur lowered Guinevere onto their bed and focused himself completely kissing and being kissed by her.

* * *

Meanwhile, Elena wandered to the outskirts of their campsite, shrouded in the shadow of a tree. She tightened the cloak around her shoulders, the ends of her robes flapping against her legs. 

"Elena?" An uncertain voice was calling from behind. She turned, seeing the full moon flash a ray of light upon the intruder of her thoughts-- Galahad. Of all the remaining platonic knights, she liked him the best. There was an undeniable, secure sense about the youngest Sarmatian knight that she could not quite figure out. Something about him was so existent and true that she failed to believe such men lived.

"Galahad," she greeted, smiling. "What are you doing out here so late? You should be resting."

"And you?" he countered, in the way she expected him to do so. "Am I supposed to assume you are nocturnal or standing guard?" Elena cast a small smile towards the knight quip.

"None whatsoever. I am simply recollecting."

"About Lancelot?" Galahad asked quietly.

She nodded and sighed. "Sometimes I blame this entirely on me. After all, I was right next to him when he was kidnapped. I should have stirred. I should have felt an intruder in the room, but no, I kept sleeping into the night and now here is my consequence."

"Elena, I beg of you never to hold yourself responsible. You were asleep; you didn't know there was an intruder in the room. You did not know that Lancelot was taken until the morning hours, and if you did happen to wake when he was about to be taken, I know you would have done something. You would have done anything to ensure his safety, now wouldn't you?" She nodded briefly, her head cast downwards.

"Then, that is all. We are not going to accuse anyone of this wrongful deed except the Saxons who took him. Our main purpose right now is to find Lancelot. With that, nothing else stands in the way and nothing else matters. All right Elena? Promise me you will not lay the blame on yourself. If you did, I would never forgive myself."

"I promise Galahad." She whispered. The Sarmatian knight drew her into a tight embrace, and she collapsed into his arms, her head onto his shoulder, and her arms around his neck. She shed silent tears that fell into the knight's shirt, but didn't care. She was modestly grateful for his sympathetic words and his compassionate state.

"My mother once said 'sometimes when we are generous in small, barely detectable ways, it can change someone else life forever', Galahad, you are that 'we'. You are the treasure of kindness. You know how to give it without hesitation, how to lose it without regret, and how to acquire it without meanness. Compassion is the basis of all morality. You are the center of that morality, and the only definition of that compassion."

The knight flushed red in the pale moonlight, thankful and relieved that she could not see the bright color in his face. He laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "I expect to pass through this world but once, any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow person, let me do it now, let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again. Elena, for me to help you tonight, it was only because you needed me. And if you ever need me again, just call and I will come. Now, I think it best if you went to sleep. After all, life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep."

Elena smiled, loosing the fastening of her cloak. "And what of you?"

"Why, I have duties now, Elena! I must stay up for the watch." Galahad laughed, stationing himself to the back of the woods. Elena took off her cloak and wrapped it around Galahad's shoulders. He looked bewildered for a moment and was about to pass the cloak off, but Elena shook her head and fastened the button around his neck.

"No, keep it. It chilly tonight, and I do not wish you to catch a cold, especially since your wound has not fully healed yet." She looked up into his eyes and sighed. "Be careful Galahad."

"I will," he assured her. "Now, go and sleep. Good night, Elena."

"Good night." She whispered and started for her tent. Halfway there, on a sudden impulse, she turned around and ran to the Sarmatian. Startled, Galahad opened his mouth and asked, "What--?" But she merely cut off his words, pulling his head closer to hers and kissed him on the cheek. Her breath came out in small rings of the cool night breeze, as she remained motionless, staring up at him through darkened eyes.

"Thank you Galahad, for everything. Of all the knights that could have came up to me tonight and whispered their reassurances to me, I'm entirely thankful that you came." She whispered into the darkness. Then, with one last glance, she turned around and walked back to her tent, leaving Galahad in a long-waited daze.

* * *

"All ready?" Arthur asked his companions as they saddled up for the continuation of their search of Lancelot. His knights nodded in return and began their ride out of Macchiato. 

"We should be heading towards Dochester if we take this route. I would have thought the Saxons resided in Macchiato, but apparently, they've moved out. I suspect they know we are trailing them. Dochester is the closest village to Macchiato, even if it is a day's ride ahead," Elena scanned the maps. "I have heard that Dochester has their reputation as a station ground for invasions. In the last month, Saxons have invaded that area frequently. Dochester is low in the valley, and right besides a river. It is an ideal place for many to settle, and for wanderers to look for food. Perhaps the Saxons will be there."

"It sounds most reasonable." Arthur agreed, "We will try there next. If Lancelot is still not within sight, we will go to the next village. I'll have Tristan scout ahead first."

For the next hour, all that was overheard was the clip clopping of the horses and the occasional creaking of the carriage wheel. Elena sensed something forbidden as they entered a patch of woods. She gripped the seat tightly and looked out the window. Knights around the carriage rode tall, but beyond them, the trees cast their dark shadows ominously.

"Arthur, it does not feel safe here. Tell the others that we must move quickly." Elena instructed. Arthur did so.

"What do you feel?" Guinevere asked, worried.

"Something dark and heavy." She whispered. Just as the words slipped out of her mouth, the horse next to her neighed loudly, interrupting the once, calm silence. Elena immediately drew the curtain out of her way and watched as the horse recoiled in fright, nearly throwing off its rider, Galahad. He tried to quiet the horse down, but it seemed only to aggravate him more and more. Then, out of nowhere, an arrow hurtled through the air and sliced its way between Galahad's horse and the carriage. Elena promptly grabbed her bow, securing an arrow to it. She stuck her head out of the window and searched the trees, her dark eyes focused on nothing but the surroundings. The knights immediately drew out their weapons, and Arthur and Guinevere jumped out of the carriage.

"SEIZE THEM!" A harsh voice rang out. Arrows shot from all directions. In alacrity, the knights walloped their swords in a battle cry. However, the Saxons surrounded them in the midst of a cluster of trees. Their arrows were fastened and ready, should anyone dare take one step. Arthur looked around him in vain. They were trapped. There was no way of escaping the enemies. Guinevere clung to him as she figured out their doom. Arthur wasn't one to give up though. He gripped Excalibur tightly in his grasp and turned to the nearest Saxon. Whack! The next second, the Saxon fell clumsily to the ground, a pool of blood surrounding his head.

The knights, seeing their commander, followed his action in suit. Elena however, knew they could not keep up like this. They were definitely outnumbered and no matter how strong or how much energy the knights possessed, they would all soon tire out quickly and lose the battle. She crept out of the carriage unnoticed, and climbed the nearest tree. Scaling to a steady branch, she drew her bow out and fired. Her arrow landed in the heart of a Saxon, who was about to kill off Bors. She continued her task each time she saw a Saxon becoming a threat to one of the knights. However, the amount of arrows she held was growing smaller, and soon she would have no weapon at all, save her sword.

"Audrey," she whispered, closing her eyes and willing for the only hope she could think of to come. She waited, motionless, watching the battle below her, freeing her spirit out of her body, becoming as one with the earth. Within minutes, a phoenix rose out of the amulet she wore.

"Go Audrey. Go." She ordered and the phoenix gave her one teary-eyed glance before diving for the battle below. Everyone stopped, despite themselves, to stare at the solitary bird, its beautiful gold and red plumage attracting everyone's unnecessary attention. Audrey dove above them, in the slowest and most graceful of motions, and with a final songbird cry, his beak collided with the earth, sending a brilliant shaft of luminous light.

Everyone was blinded by this sudden outburst, but Arthur and his knights were clever enough to stay down low. The Saxons were tossed and churned in the violent light, thrown out of the woods and knocked unconscious until not a single Saxon was in sight. Elena climbed down the tree and landed boldly, wandering to her companions.

Arthur was the first to get up. He looked at Elena, then where the phoenix was last seen. The remaining ashes were spreading out of the cinnamon twigs and towards the north, a swirl of smoke climbing its way out of the woods. He watched in fascination as a beam of petite lights forced their way out of the ashes and in turn, a new, young phoenix was rising. The new phoenix embalmed the ashes of immorality and before long; he was singing a stirring song and preening his feathers. The other knights watched as Audrey made his way across the battlefield to Elena, whose outstretched arm welcomed him. She patted him fondly, avoiding the curious glances of her companions.

"Thank you, Audrey. And, have some rest." The phoenix nodded in understanding and flew up above her head at a forty-five degree angle. She closed her eyes and waited. Audrey soared fiercely into the amulet and disappeared; the only evidence of a phoenix ever present was the final signal he sent--a single red feather floating carelessly to the ground. Elena stood perfectly still, unmoved by anything, not even the powerful force of a bird flying back to her necklace. Arthur picked up the feather and examined it. The others gathered round, confounded and amazed.

"Wh-h-hat?" was all Dagonet could say. He stared, unconvinced that he was a witness to such a spectacle, at Elena and the feather of her bird. The feather of a mythological, ancient bird.

"Audrey is a phoenix. He came to me at a desperate time, a time where we all needed a miracle. Even the smallest of miracles mattered. You know I am presently the Lady of Wales. Well, long before I was, Wales was a small village of trouble. Years and years of traditions had been traced back to a thousand years or more to consider the chief leader of the village, the firstborn, always male. However, when I was born, that's when things went wrong. My grandfather was bound by tradition to pick a male leader. He did not see me as the natural heir, and I struggled to prove myself. During this time, we were in danger. Invasions and revolutions were common everyday, and many people were searching to move out. They wanted to leave Wales. There is a legend in this village that once, our ancestor called out for help during a violent flood and a phoenix came to him. The phoenix shed one single tear, and the village was saved. When I was eleven, our village started to flood too.

My grandfather believed it was the apocalypse of our village coming to an end. I cried out for help too. I prayed to our ancestors for their guidance, and Audrey came to us. He shed a single tear and the village was saved. I almost drowned in that flood, but at that time, I wasn't scared to die. I loved my grandfather more than anyone in the world, but I needed to fight him and a thousand years of tradition to fulfill my destiny." Elena ended her story, fingering her phoenix amulet.

Galahad crossed to her side. "Elena, I'm constantly amazed by you. Every time I think that there can be anything else that will amaze me anymore, you swoop in and reach a new level of amazement."

She blushed slightly and lowered her glance to her scabbard. Nearby, she heard a Saxon stirring and an idea rushed to her head. She promptly arrived at his side, the blade of her sword glinting in the forest's dancing light. At once, she pressed the blade to the Saxon's throat. "Where is he?"

The Saxon looked up at her murderously. He spat-- "I don't know who you mean and I do not care."

Arthur stood above the Saxon and withdrew his sword. The hint of the blade was directed to the Saxon's face. "You know very well who we mean. Where is Lancelot?"

"I do not know a Lancelot. And nothing will make me betray the word of my commander." The Saxon said insolently.

"Oh really? How about if I cut off your fingers one by one, then submit you there a round of ultimate torture where you die very slowly, and very painfully? Would you like that instead?" Arthur suggested, in the plainest tone of casualness.

The Saxon was silent. He obviously did not want that to happen. He stared at the King, then at Elena and the other knights who surrounded him. His brain trickled with uneasiness. He would be defying Cynric, but he did not wish to die now. Finally, he looked up into the eyes of his enemies--- "Twenty miles from here is a village, Dochester. They have stationed there for tonight. We would have gone farther, but Cynric knew you would be coming for that useless captured knight, and he wanted you all slain so it'll be easier to capture Camelot, and to find the real Arthur. He knows that knight is not Arthur, some other man, goes by Lancelot. Cynric has not killed Lancelot yet, only driven him for information and tortured him. I don't expect that knight to live another day. You might be too late."

Elena scowled at the Saxon's smiling tone and knocked him unconscious with the side of her sword. She glanced up to see Arthur looking back at her. She read him immediately. They had to go and find Lancelot before it was too late. Before he died...

* * *

The thing about being captured and tortured was that after awhile, you cease to feel anything. The pain and numbness has left your body and everything feels empty and alone. This is exactly what Lancelot felt right now, after days being bound, tormented, and narrowly killed in the hands of the deadliest enemies. 

When the Saxon commander, Cynric, had first summoned him, believing he was Arthur, and seeing the face of a nameless knight, Lancelot could see the throbbing vein the Saxon temple. Pure, dangerous anger radiated from him like nothing else. It was the sort of rage and resentment Lancelot had never faced before, until now.

However, it was during this that Lancelot felt a moment of glorifying triumph, triumph that made all the pain and humiliation and his eventual death worthwhile. He had not been the one Cynric wanted. Cynric had wanted his best friend, the Roman commander, and the British commander. He had wanted Arthur, a man who Lancelot would die of, and die for. The noblest cause to die for is to die for your friends. And this was exactly how Lancelot knew he would die. He had always wanted to die in battle, in a battle of his choosing of course, but this, he believed after a long while, was a much better way of dying. Of knowing that he was dying for the one of the more dignified causes gave him a new light in his temporary world of darkness.

And through his new light, his memories kept coming back to Elena. Every time he thought of her, his throat swelled and tears trickled down his cheek. He knew Elena so well already, knew how she looked when she woke up, how she sounded when she was tired, happy, afraid, worried, angry; how she smelled, usually of the lively scent of fruit and flowers. He had memorized every detail about her, from her glossy locks to her soft hazel speckled eyes to the way her lip curled into the brightest smiles.

He missed her the most. Out of everything he missed, everything he craved and longed for, he wanted her. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, caress her fingers and stroke her hair. He wanted her as close to him as possible, but that was entirely impossible. Where he was now, he had no clue, and for all he knew, she was a thousand miles away. His love for her, his longing for his Elena, was the difficult realization that something other than himself was real in his captured world. For him, loving another human being had always been the most difficult of all his tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. But, with Elena, it was nothing too difficult. Perhaps it was because trying to love all those other women was nothing but a childish infatuation or a glimpse of vanity. With Elena, it was pure, selfless love.

He knew love wasn't a decision. It was a feeling. If he could decide whom he could love, it would be much simpler, yet much less magical. Elena was this magic; a complicated kind of magic that he dared to involve with and yet he feared if he did not, his world would not have been so wonderful and so colorful. Without Elena, everything he knew would never have existed and he would have never known what love was like. What love represented or felt like, even what it looked like.

"Elena..." He muttered as he felt sleep start to overcome his other senses. He always tried to imagine what would come first in the night sleep, pain, or Cynric? Usually, it was none of these. But tonight, as he lay, his thoughts occupied by Elena, his eyelids drooped effortlessly and he slid silently into a world of nothingness.


	11. The Power of Love

**Chapter 11: The Power of Love**

"Here, I see it," Bors whispered as they bent down low beneath the cluster of trees. His comrades followed his gaze. "There, you see? The center camp? That must be Cynric ."

Arthur nodded, "Yes, good. I doubt Lancelot will be kept in there however. I suspect he should be within the perimeter of the camp. The Saxons do not care enough for their captures to set them well inside with the commander." His green eyes shifted across the border.

"How about that wagon over there? I see something bulky underneath the tarp. Perhaps it is he." Guinevere noted, pointing out the canvas-covered wagon, hiding between two leafy trees. Had it not been for the bright illumination of the full moon tonight, no one would have noticed the wagon there.

"Yes, that would most definitely hold him. Let us go." Arthur commanded. They crept out of their thicket and started moving towards Lancelot's wagon. Their movements were awfully lingering, as they did not want to wake up any of the guards surrounding the camp.

"We must not go all at once. Only a few go and rescue him. We do not know if the Saxons have set up a trap there to fool us, or if the guards will see. We cannot risk us all being captured." Elena instructed. "How about if Galahad, Tristan, and I go and see to him and the rest of you stay in the woods so that you l retrieve him afterwards and keep guard for us?"

Arthur considered the matter very thoroughly before he accepted. Though he wanted to be the first to see Lancelot's condition, he knew that Elena was just as eager as he was. Besides, he would serve well as the watchman instead. He watched as Elena, Galahad, and Tristan started moving towards the covered wagon. The three of them were most certainly the quietest out of all of Arthur's knights, his queen, and he. They hardly made a single sound as they approached the wagon, stooped down low so that they could not be easily seen. Arthur watched in vain, his fingers interlacing tightly with Guinevere .

"It'll be alright, Arthur. We will soon see Lancelot." She reassured.

"Yes, we will." His throat closed up, his insides burning.

Elena's heart contracted faster and faster as they advanced to the wagon. She was terribly afraid that everyone in the campground could hear the beating of her trembling heart. A certain lightness filled her head, filled with images of her beloved Lancelot, these images that made it possible for her to keep moving. She wanted to be the first to see Lancelot, to see if he was still alive or if he was dead. On either side of her, the two knights fell silent in step with her. She knew they were pondering about Lancelot's condition, and she felt utterly grateful that they were there to support her if ever she did need supporting.

"Ready?" Galahad asked to her left. She nodded dazedly as the two of the knights knelt down, grasped the canvas and flipped it over. Her eyes fell down to the person in front of her. She did not move as Tristan took a step back to let the light fall on Lancelot, away from the spot where he lay, his hands bound behind him, on his side. He looked as if he were asleep. Elena stood where she was as her bow dropped out of her loosening fingers and clattered noiselessly onto the grass.

Galahad seemed to be saying something to her. Whatever it was, Elena looked at him without expression; at the center of the static motionless whirlpool she had fallen into, there was no room for any words. She heard no part of what was said to her, nor did she care. It didn't matter anyone. Galahad placed his hand on her shoulder gently, and the next words he spoke broke in through the confusion flooding Elena's mind like pebbles striking through water. "He's dead."

Now Elena did move. Not so much out of volition as out of the fact that her legs had given out. She hit the ground on her hands and knees, and crawled to kneel next to Lancelot. She reached to touch his shoulder, to straighten his dark curls, turning Lancelot's face towards her. As she did, she saw that her own hands were splashed with tiny flecks of blood and the blood came off on Lancelot where she touched him.

"Lancelot," she said. It was reflexive. Not quite having managed to accept it, she assumed Lancelot was already dead. And yet it was impossible. If he had died, she would have known. Surely, if Lancelot was dead, she would feel it, surely that part of Lancelot she had carried inside him since she met him that had linked them together would die, would sputter and be extinguished, and, having dwelled as two persons under one skin, surely she would feel that amputation with the keen pain of a physical wound. Instead, all she felt was a pattern of deadly numbness.

She untied his hands and let his body fall against her. Resting her hand on his head, his voice began to echo in her head, rolling through her mind like wind over water, and she found that she was crying. Her throat burned as she extended her arm and clutched at his cold hand. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and she moaned when his fingers did not make the usual gesture of squeezing her hand in return.

"Tell me now," she whispered desperately. "Tell me what you see. Tell me, Lancelot, if you are flying, if you see me holding you, if you see those who love you hoping you were not dead yet... are you happy Lancelot? Are you fulfilled with your life? Tell me Lancelot!"

With a garbled cry, she pulled herself up from the ground and threw her arms around the knight motionless body. Pressing her face into his shoulder, she wept an ocean. She wept her burning country. She wept a hundred valiant knights, decimated to six. She wept an uncertain future; to a man she loved with her whole heart, which now was home to only a smoky, sweat-drenched memory.

"Lancelot!" Elena gasped, when at last she recovered her breath. Her fingers curled on his chest and she closed her eyes, letting her cheek resting heavily on his breastbone as she panted for air. "Tell me there is no pain. I could not bear it if you felt this pain as I feel it. You have suffered enough lost enough in the life you lived on this earth." Her head shook numbly against his cheek as her eyes opened and she stared vacantly at his chin. "It is dark and wet and miserable here, and I feel none of it for this gnawing in my stomach that tells me you are gone."

A cold night breeze drifted across the back of her neck, and she shivered. "Not you, my Lancelot," she whispered. "Not you. You were never cold." She held him tightly against her breast, tears trickling down her cheeks. They fell on Lancelot face, and seeped down his cheeks as well. Elena kissed his forehead very gently, whispering a prayer of hope.

Tristan and Galahad looked solemnly at the deceased outline of their friend. He looked very peaceful however; more peaceful than Lancelot could ever look alive, as though he had died an undisturbed and calm death, contrast to his nature. Galahad couldn't help but feel his face grow hot with jealousy as he watched Elena caress Lancelot's dark curls. He had always been envious of the Sarmatian knight, who earned Arthur's utmost respect and his dearest friendship, who befriended the prettiest Woad woman and was her favorite knight, who had those luxurious dark curls and that gentle voice that wooed any women to his side and the youngest Sarmatian had always been resentful to Lancelot about that. After all, why should _he_ get to be Arthur's best friend or Guinevere trusted knight? And more significantly, why should _he_ earn the faithful love of Elena?

However, most markedly, why should his eyes be closed and his soul separate from his body? Why should Lancelot, the bravest of all Sarmatian knights, be dead and in Elena's comforting arms? Galahad had wanted more than anything, to be in Lancelot's place, to have handsome looks, a beautiful woman, and Arthur's loyalty but now, more than anything, Galahad wished he were dead instead. He wished he had been tortured and bruised by the Saxons. He wished his blood would run into Elena hands and the others would weep for him. Galahad wished, more than anything, wanted more than life itself, that Lancelot would wake up.

Elena stared unaccustomedly to Lancelot's blank face; so emotionless he did not appear human, so deathly pale he was practically white. "Not you, Lancelot," she whispered breathlessly. "You, who I loved, not because you were brave, although you were, or understanding, although you were that too, or compassionate, which you were- but because you were kind, with the sort of kindness so rare among most people- kindness that not only gives, but gives up. This sort of kindness does not exist in most people, and is so extraordinary and uncommon that when someone lucky, like me, comes along and finds someone with this kindness, they never wish to let them go. You are of a last kind, a kind that is quickly dying out, and soon there will be no more, except for a faded memory."

Arthur did not see what was happening. He was anxious to see his best friend's face smiling up to him, but no one called for him to come forward. Elena had been hunched over Lancelot for fifteen minutes now, behind, Galahad and Tristan on either side of her acting as sentinels. They were all perfectly silent; no sign of jubilation or sadness seemed to float out from the three of them. Arthur didn't know what to expect. He was assuming that Lancelot was between life and death, hanging by a mere thread "Do you think he is well?" a voice shook him from his haunting nightmares. He turned very suddenly to Guinevere, who had asked, then back at the three distinct figures standing over Lancelot body.

"I am going to find out." He replied, and moved forward. He ignored Tristan and Galahad, but focused entirely on what laid in Elena's embrace. He kept walking forward, it seemed as though he was walking down a long, endless corridor and every time he felt his destination so close to reach that it was practically at the edge of his fingertips, it slipped away and he had to follow it again in the same fashion over and over until he didn't know whether he should stop or go top or go. Promptly, he found himself standing over her, his heart thumping with nervous excitement, with earnest seriousness. He looked down and sucked in a deep breath. There he was, Lancelot, his best friend, the most loyal knight, drenched in crimson blood, his eyes peacefully and thankfully closed, so obviously dead. Arthur's mind went blank. He couldn't think nor move. His legs gave way and he fell on his knees, crouching over Lancelot. Elena looked up mechanically at Arthur. The King doubled over. Her eyes-- always dappled in the calmest and most ecstatic sense-- was now dripping with solemn grief.

"Arthur," she whispered under her breath, giving Lancelot her attention, "Arthur, he is dead." She confirmed in an emotionless voice, so very unlike her. He stared at Lancelot's limp form; the knight's blood touched his hands, and his bruised spots freckled in his face.

"He is," Arthur cried noiselessly, fingering Lancelot's dark curls. His best friend, his greatest warrior, his loyal advisor as dead. Was gone. And it was all because of him. Lancelot had died because of him because the Saxons had mistaken him for Arthur. Every bruise he had, every kind of torture he had undergone, every blood he shed, Arthur knew it was in his name. "He died because of me." Arthur echoed his disturbing thoughts.

Trembling, Elena turned to look at him. She did not want him to blame himself for Lancelot's death. She knew it was killing him inside, to believe that it was because of him that Lancelot had died so young, so brave. Elena wished she could blame him too, but she could never point the finger. She wanted to hold responsibility as much as Arthur for Lancelot's death. She wanted to be accountable and feel shamefaced just as badly as he felt. Her shaking hand made contact with Arthur and she whispered-- "It is not your fault, Arthur. It never was."

"But it is. As much as you like to say it isn't, you know it is, Elena. The Saxons came to take me. Instead, they captured Lancelot. He was acting for me because he did not wish for my death. He died for me! My brother died for who I am." Tears found their way down his cheek, and he bowed his head in shame. Elena leaned a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Arthur, I said that I loved Lancelot, not because of who he is, but because of who he made me. You say Lancelot died for who you are. No, Lancelot died for a greater cause: love. If there is anything to die for, it is for love. He died because of his love for you. As we look deeply within, we understand our perfect balance. There is no fear of the cycle of birth, life, and death. For when you stand in the present moment, you are timeless. Time does not change us; it just unfolds us.

Lancelot lived a decent life. He triumphed, he lost, he was a man of deep honor, and he knew love. Half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save. Lancelot never did that. He never wasted a minute to speak his mind, an hour to triumph or lose, or even a day to tell someone he loved them. So, do not weep for Lancelot. Instead, embrace his life. He would have wanted that more than anything else."

Arthur raised his head gradually and took a momentary look at Elena. Her eyes were swerving with a grave send-off, something so unfamiliar about her looked out, as though she had accepted everything.

"Elena, did you love Lancelot?" Arthur suddenly asked.

"Yes. Of course I did. I still do." She whispered breathlessly. She laid her trembling hand back on Lancelot's shoulder, and then found the amulet his sister had given to him before he left Sarmatia. Elena sighed heavily as she thought of Sarmatia. The brave knight hadn't even gotten the chance to go home before the end of the war. Elena got up from the ground, turned, and took a step.

"There is a saying in Sarmatia," Arthur said, and she stopped moving, her back to him. "It says that when a mighty warrior dies-"

"He returns to earth as a great horse," Elena finished for him, not looking back. "I have been told."

She heard leather creak as Arthur stood behind her. "Horses are amazing creatures," he explained. "Intelligent, valiant, loyal. Without them, a knight is nothing more than a foot soldier."

Footsteps approached as Arthur moved to stand at her side. She did not look at him.

"Intelligence and courage are impossible to tame," he said quietly. "We imagine the beasts we ride are domesticated, but all you need do is look in your horse's eye to know that you ride him because he allows it, not because it is your right." She saw him glance over his shoulder out of the corner of her eye, towards Lancelot's body. "I think perhaps that is why we are waiting here. We are waiting for a sign to tell us where he waits. It is an desirable place, I expect."

"How so? Now, we cannot speak to him."

"No more than we could before." Arthur stated. Elena knew what he meant. Lancelot was a man of worldly, impressive words, and most of the time, it was either quips or sarcastic comments that came from his mouth, not much more than simple conversations. "That is what is important, Elena. Not what separates us, but what connects. Lancelot did not need to see you to know you were there. Just as you do not need to see him now to know he still lives, albeit in some different form." Arthur was behind her; so close Elena could feel his breath against her neck. She dared to look at him, so noble and tolerant of Lancelot's death.

"Arthur, promise me you will burn Lancelot's body when we get back to Camelot. He said to cast his ashes to a strong eastern wind." She had expected him to be surprised, to be shocked, and to be angry at such an incongruous request. Instead, he simply nodded and picked up Lancelot's limp body from the ground. It was the least he could do for his best friend. To give him his dying wish.

"If he requested so, then it will be done. Now come, it will be a long way before we reach Camelot." Arthur's voice turned mechanical again. He started towards his knights, with Elena at his heels. She felt Galahad and Tristan falling behind her as they walked towards the rest of the knights.

Arthur came to a rest in front of his Knights of the Round Table, and his wife. He carefully laid Lancelot's body on the sopping grass, letting Lancelot's frail arms fall onto his chest, and his dark curls to bounce uncharacteristically into his face. Elena shut her eyes as she heard the many gasps of the others. She heard Guinevere's pronounced short intake of breath, along with Bors' ragged, uneven breathing. To her left, she heard the wheezing of Gawain. To her right however, stood Arthur, who did not express any emotion. She used her peripheral vision to see him, not possessing the strength or desire to look directly at him. She could feel his eyes burning through her however; feel his green eyes pierce through her like flashing balls of fire.

"Here, lies not only the greatest Knight of the Round Table, nor the most courageous or the most willing warrior, here lies our friend, our brother, our love," and at this, Elena chanced to look at Arthur as he articulated the word 'love'; she knew he meant her. "While I was absorbed by my idealistic vision of how the world could be, Lancelot was more grounded in the cold and filth of how the world truly is. However, no matter how arrogant, cocky, or passionate he was, he has remained absolutely dedicated to me, the loyalist friend I could ask for. And skillful with his two swords, he feared no enemy. He was a charismatic fighter, but more importantly, a sincerely benevolent soul. To him, I raise my eyes to the Heavens and declare: may he rest in benevolent peace forever." He bowed his head in silent prayer, the others following suit.

Elena bent down to Lancelot's side, and leaned downward to kiss him, all the more gentle on the cheek. As the moonlight hit Lancelot's pale face, the kiss glinted in a starlike shape, dancing in the vivacious light. And slowly, the starlike shape began to spin in a revolving wheel aster and faster, gaining more momentum with every passing second until he star spun out from its form and floated past the knight, past the surrounding hushed audience, past the tops of the trees and into the dark canvas of night. Elena watched as the starlike impression started to glow in Lancelot's face, and edged very carefully to his forehead. And all of a sudden, a blast of light was sent into Lancelot's body, so that he jerked uncontrollably. Everyone watched in awe as the starlike shape finally submerged and disappeared, leaving the world black.

At this point, Lancelot's body began to quiver. His hand began to tremble hysterically, and his breath came out uneven and in short breaths. His heart pounded very slowly, but he was undeniably alive. Elena put her hand across his heart, and a great surge of hope washed over her. She bent down next to his ear and began talking in a hushed whisper, urging the knight to revive. Arthur bent down as well, seized Lancelot's other hand, and began to rub it forcefully. The combined efforts of the people Lancelot loved most in life had managed to recover the poor knight back into life. He began coughing out blood crimson, dark blood that stained his shirt and Arthur and Elena's hands. Then he lifted one eyelid to peer into his outside world. He had expected the shadows of the Saxons, but instead, was welcomed by the friendly faces of Arthur and Elena. He cried aloud in shock, but a wonderful, calming sensation flowed through his veins and caused him to cry. It was the feeling of being back home, of being safe and protected, and of being loved. It wasn't just a feeling, it was an incredible sense of awareness.

Lancelot lifted his left hand gingerly to touch Elena's face. She immediately caressed it over her cheek, tears oozing out of her eyes. Lancelot noticed the tears, and with his thumb, wiped them before they reached her chin. He half-smiled, "Grief is the agony of an instant, while the indulgence of grief is the blunder of a life. Courage, Elena or it is a magical talisman before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish into the air. It is what brought me back to you. It drives you and me and everyone around us. I never wanted you to waste your tears on me."

"That wouldn't have taken courage, Lancelot. That took my love for you. I wept because I thought I lost you. I thought I lost my love." She said, aware of his fingers increasingly warmer than before.

"You would have never lost me, because whether I am here beside you or traveling in the skies above, I would never leave your side. I am always here for you, in physical or spiritual form. Romances begin for all kinds of reasons, but when all is said and done, most of them have one thing in common. They are shooting stars, a spectacular moment of light in the Heavens, fleeting glimpse of eternity, and in a flash they are gone, but not our love. Not the love it took to bring me back, or the love that brought you here to my side. No, that kind of love is unsurpassed in this world of arrogance and greed. That kind of love is not just one moment of Heaven, it is an endless show."

Her eyes were filled with tears, starlike that glistened in the light. "Life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. No, rather, it is a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan. I have concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call 'fatum', what we currently refer to as destiny. I do not know what my destiny is or what yours is, but I do know that in love, destiny has brought us together because we love each other, and this love will protect us time after time. This type of destined love is not fit for everyone nor even evident in some people's lives, but we're fortunate to have this."

Lancelot nodded, "I know. I consider it very fortunate to have met someone like you." Lancelot boasted. He intertwined his fingers with hers, practically glowing.

"As with me." Elena replied, bending forward to catch his kiss. It was the comforting, familiar feeling of being in Lancelot's arms again, of sharing kisses with him, and of a passionate feeling that still burned. "I love you." Elena whispered into his ear. Lancelot smiled and repeated the message back to her. Sighing contentedly, the knight leaned backwards into the grass and looked to his right.

Arthur. He could see through his best friend. He saw the concern and fear in his friend burning green eyes, and the encouraging face he wore when he was in an uneasy situation. Lancelot knew he had caused his friend pain, knew that his primitive 'death' had enthused unnecessary nervousness into Arthur's untainted heart.

"Forgive me, Arthur. I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to." Lancelot squeezed his fingers. The King immediately hushed him.

"No, Lancelot. Forgive me. I sent you here. I was the hand who brought you to the edge of death. Had the Saxons captured me instead, who they were looking for, you would not have been in such torture. I ask for forgiveness, my brother, for what I have done. I never once faltered in my duties as the King or the commander, but here, I weaken because I have hurt you. I curse myself because of my poor discretion. I'm sorry, Lancelot. Please forgive me." He bowed his head, the first time he had done so to one of his knights. Lancelot was deeply touched.

"Arthur, you have done nothing that allows you to ask for my forgiveness. This was not your doing, and whatever you believe is your cause, it never was. Arthur, I am here because of my choosing. I am here because I am a knight, and I intend to follow you wherever you may be. And if that includes protecting you till I die, then so be it. A leader would take people places where they want to go. A great leader takes people places where they don't necessarily want to go, but ought to be. You are one of these great leaders, Arthur. There is a quality you possess that effects our decisions. We follow you because we choose to, not because you asked us or made us but because we want to."

His captain swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. "Lancelot, I know I do not express my gratitude enough, but, you must always know that you are my greatest knight of all and my truest, most loyal friend. Without you, I wouldn't know how to live. We have known each for so long, that we have accomplished intuition to know what the other is thinking and what he is feeling. I never want to let this go. I never want to let this feeling fade." Arthur declared in his softest voice. The Sarmatian knight smiled at his commander's dedicated words and closed his eyes. Freedom never felt so sweet-- to be in the safe embrace of his childhood friend to his sweet, dear love was all that defined freedom as of that moment. Nothing else mattered. Even as they stood on enemy grounds, none of them cared less than about each other. And that was the way it was, and will always be.


	12. Arrivederci

**Chapter 12: Arrivederci**

"Stay still, Lancelot, or else I will not be able to bandage your wound." Elena instructed as the carriage rocked. The Sarmatian knight scowled, but held still. The medicine Elena had applied to his skin was stinging, but he tried to ignore the pain as she wrapped the bandages.

He focused instead on the people surrounding him. Arthur, Guinevere, and Elena he three people he loved most in Camelot were situated around him in a circle, watching as Elena applied the remedies to the injured knight. Guinevere was standing by assistance, waiting for instructions, and Arthur was evenly surveying the operation.

"Your wound is very deep. It will take a couple of weeks for it to fully heal. This means no engaging in battles, Lancelot." Guinevere gave him a severe look. Lancelot winced in pain.

"Why must this happen to me? You know you are taking away my most valued passion in life." He complained.

"Really? I always thought bedding women was your passion in life."

Lancelot smirked at his commander phrase. "Aye, Arthur. That is my greatest passion of all. Of course, I believe my interest in bedding women has finally come to a close, for I have found the perfect woman to whom I can bed with pleasurable simulation, and still manage to have a perfectly healthy conversation and a good fight." He gave Elena a teasing, coy laugh, which she returned in favor.

"Aye, Lancelot. I do believe your constant bedding has come to a sad close. We won't expect anyone besides Elena in there now, should we? How awfully unentertaining!" Arthur teased. Elena threw a playful punch and beamed awkwardly.

"Keep at it, and you'll find yourself never bedding a single woman in your entire life... both of you," she glared at Arthur and Lancelot, while Guinevere was muffling her laughter. "Including Guinevere and me."

Arthur and Lancelot gave her horrified looks and immediately shut up. Guinevere smiled broadly, nodding in Elena's clever plan. "I agree with you, Elena." She smiled and returned to tending Lancelot's wound.

Half an hour later, they arrived just ten miles out of Dochester. Night was falling, and Arthur decided that they camp for the night. While the fire crackled and everyone was singing, laughing, and telling embellished stories, Elena watched her friends from a great distance. The sun was falling just beyond the hilltop, and she sighed with mingled satisfaction and weariness of the day's events. She turned her head to survey the knights around the fire, smiling as her eyes fell on each one.

There was Arthur, a real man, someone who sacrificed himself to become a leader and earned the right to be called King. Amongst the knights, Arthur was the one who felt a sense of unfairness, a sense of responsibility to intervene and make the world a fair place.

The formidable Dagonet was a traditionalist with a strong code of honor. He clearly recognized that without Arthur as their leader, the Knights of the Round Table would be no better than a pack of wolves. He was a quiet observer of life, with a strong sense of place and time.

Then, there was Bors, a fierce fighter and the veteran of the knights. He reveled in getting his hands on an enemy and was talented with his knuckle-blades and axe. However, Elena plainly knew he was still a kindhearted father figure and loyal knight of the land.

The mysterious and deadly Tristan to Elena was a lone wolf, a scout with just his hawk for company. Killing is an art for him, and he was most likely to leave the battlefield strewn with the blood of those he mortally wounded and left to die a lingering, painful death. She knew the other knights found him a bit disturbing. After all, he was a solitary figure accompanied by eloquent words and a desire to fight.

Then came Gawain, a down-to-earth person whose home was the battlefield. If he died fighting, Elena knew, he wouldn't have a single regret. Galahad, on the other hand, was the youngest of the knights and the most enraged by his forced duty to Rome. He was driven by his dream of one day returning to his native homeland in Sarmatia. His memory of his homeland has driven him to the position he holds now. His sense of family was very different than that of older men, and he has nurtured his dream of home in order to survive all hell he had undergone.

And lastly, sitting at the right-hand side of Arthur, as usual, was Lancelot. _Lancelot_, she breathed, the most compelling of all knights. He was a grounded knight with his vision of how the world truly was. He was absolutely arrogant and cocky, but he was deeply passionate well. As though her thoughts were scattered into the flames and speckled onto the knights, Lancelot looked up and caught her eye. Immediately, he gave Arthur an apologetic send-off and stood up. His long strides caught up until he was about a foot away from Elena.

"What are you doing?" He questioned, smiling slightly.

"I am pondering over the Knights of the Roundtable. It just so happens I ended up on you when you looked up. How very coincidental!"

Lancelot smiled, "And what do you think about me?"

"Cocky, but compassionate." She answered simply. Lancelot was mildly disappointed by her lack of word choice, and was about to say something when she interrupted. "I see a man who knows where he belongs, what opportunities he has, what choices he is given. I see a man who can defend his country and his people, and be courageous enough to do it. I see a benevolent and insightful mind at work each moment of our lives, and I see a man who I love to an untouchable degree."

Lancelot relaxed. His stomach flipped, and he felt the instant takeover of nervous butterflies. He reached out a hand to touch her delicate face. "I have known you for two weeks. I don't know how you came to be Lady of Wales or what you did in your childhood. I don't know who your friends were or are, and I have no idea how you came to be who you are. But I do know the curves of your face. And I know every fleck of green and gold in your eyes. I know that these past two weeks have been the best weeks of my life." And he pressed a soft kiss onto her lips.

Pulling apart, Elena squeezed his arm. "I think it is best if you go get some rest. I almost lost you, Lancelot, and I don't want that to happen again. Please go and relax."

"Alright, but if you promise to come within an hour's time. I do not wish to spend all night waiting for you. After all, I have already spent a good deal of time without you besides me when I fall asleep. Did you know when Cynric kidnapped me very night before I fell asleep; I whispered your name into the darkness? I whispered your name so that in fear I died that night, the last thing that parted from my lips was your sweet name, the name of the woman I have come to love so very much."

Tears came to Elena's eyes when she heard of that. She kissed his temple very gently, a prism of tears enveloping her. "Lancelot, I never want to lose you again. I can't afford that."

"I can't either." he kissed her hand, looking affectionately into her hazel eyes. "Adieu, my dear. Until later, sweet tears of goodbye." He woefully released her hand, starting for their shared tent.

"Lancelot." Elena blurted out.

"Yes?" The knight asked, turning away, hands in his pocket, so handsomely charming as his dark curls unraveled across his forehead, his top collar button loosed and his mysterious, fond look.

"Arrivederci." She grinned, waving farewell.

"And? What do I say in return?" The Sarmatian asked, cocking his eyebrow in eager question.

"Au revoir." She answered, in a tone of unforced simplicity.

"Alright. Au revoir, Elena."

* * *

She returned to their tent in an hour's time, as she had promised him. He was lying down on the soft matting, hands folded under his head, staring up at the top of the tent. A small smile stretched on his lips as he heard the tent door rustling and a set of familiar, quiet footsteps entered.

"Quite the time, my lady." He whispered softly as he heard Elena settle down on the mat beside him. He could almost see a visible smile noticeable in the dark, and at once, her arms were around him.

"I did not want you to wait, Lancelot." Her voice came out in its musical tone. The knight settled himself comfortably into an embrace, and then kissed the top of her forehead before she drifted off to sleep. Lancelot tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, vivid images of Cynric and Cedric came to his mind wild images of his abduction and the burning anguish and torture he had undergone came back to haunt him.

Lancelot at once drew his pullover and stepped out of the tent. The cool night air caught him by surprise, and he shivered from the breezy winds. He walked forward a few steps and studied the skies overhead for solace. He became so absorbed that he failed to notice another set of footsteps approaching his way.

"Lancelot, whatever are you doing out here?" A sweet, softened voice asked. The knight turned and met face-to-face with Guinevere. He scanned her up and down in staggered approval. She was wearing a gown made of the sheerest and lightest materials. It was the color of celadon-green, a color that matched her pale skin and fiery eyes. Lancelot recollected the first time he had seen her dressed in a flowing gown, of similar material to what she was wearing now. And he remembered his conspicuous attitude towards her--- the furthest affection he had felt for any women up to that point of his life.

"Good evening, Guinevere. I could not render myself to slumber, so instead, I decided to splurge my leisure in the study of the skies. But may I ask the same question to you, my dear lady? What are you doing out?"

The Queen smiled faintly. "You are always been inquiring me of my business affairs. Not that I mind of course. It is the same with me. I could not sleep. I do not understand why in particular tonight, but I will question my faith. It just so happens to be a coincidence that you are here as well."

Lancelot nodded in agreement, "Yes, quite so, Guinevere." The two fell in silence for a couple of minutes, before Guinevere drew a question.

"Lancelot, when will you ask Elena in her hand for marriage?" The question startled the young knight; for this was the last thing he had been expecting her to ask. He shrugged in his superior means of response.

"Why, do you think she will have me?"

Guinevere laughed. "Ha! As if she would not. Lancelot, I am a woman. I understand women. I can see Elena's expectant desire in marrying you. And I believe I can see the same in you."

"I cannot lie to you, Guinevere, for I have been thinking of this proposal for days now at end. I constantly wonder what it would be like to have her as my wife, and nothing has come across my feelings more than an infinite, multihued pool of delight and ecstasy. However, I have known her for only such a short period of time. How can I allow myself to wed a woman in such a period of time without a deep knowledge of her?"

"Lancelot," Guinevere replied in her tone of disappointment, "Love is not the knowledge and profound acquaintance of someone. No, it is rather a permanently self-enlarging experience. Tell me something Lancelot. How much do you love Elena?"

"How much? What do you mean by that? There isn't a definite measurement for love. I love Elena unconditionally. I do not expect anything in return for my love. I am simply giving it."

Silence sliced their conversation. Guinevere left one delicate hand on his shoulder and smiled fondly. "That answer, Lancelot, is one I never expected to hear from anyone. Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved. You have convinced yourself. No, more so, you know you are loved. And you love too," she stopped herself, and gazed at him dimly through her flecked eyes. "So, will you marry her?"

Lancelot turned to face the tent he occupied with Elena. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her figure lying curled up in her charming way, a faint smile upon her sweet lips, and his name whispered on her lips. He turned to Guinevere with meaningful determination. "Perhaps."

The answer did not suit Guinevere all too well. She sighed heavily, shook her head, and started walking back to her tent. Lancelot stopped her halfway. "What? What is it?"

Exasperated, Guinevere threw up her hands in hopelessness. "Lancelot, there is a woman who loves you, and will love you with her wasted heart for God knows how long. And you e just standing here, not doing a thing about it and pretending that it not true. But it is true; Lancelot, and you better do something before it's too late. Because once it is too late, then you can't do anything but regret for the rest of your life what you should have done in the beginning."

He stared at her incredulously. "Are you finished now?"

"Yes." She replied in her cool, indifferent manner.

"I'm sorry." She looked at him, stunned, then blinked. In a moment, his arms were outstretched, offering an apologetic embrace. Her features softened immediately and she freed herself into his arms. He could feel her trembling body safe in his support, smell the fragrant scent that was so familiarly hers, and hear the sighs from inside. Something enveloped them together that Lancelot could not explain, but for all the world, he did not give a single care as he stood wrapped in Guinevere's embrace.

Guinevere slowly released her securely, wrapped arms away from Lancelot back and stared up vaguely into his eyes. She gave him a tight-lipped smile but it vanished quickly as Lancelot fought all his negative impulses and kissed her, very gently, very softly on the lips. She fell back, staggered for a moment, staring at Lancelot through a half-glazed glance. He bit down on his lip, fighting his conscience and his inclination of Elena, staring at Guinevere, the first woman he had loved when he first laid eyes on her back at Marius' dungeon, with the impression of loving affection.

She stared back at him, fighting her own ethics, glancing back at the tent and the world she occupied with Arthur, and then at the tent Lancelot shared with Elena. He seemed a hundred miles away now, as she stared at these two tents. She loved Arthur very much, couldn't imagine a life without him beside her. But as she stood before Lancelot, the fearless knight she had met a million hours ago, she couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and attraction to him. She remembered when she had first met these knights, how her eye had gone immediately to Lancelot. It wasn't Arthur that she had seen first, but instead, it was Lancelot. Not knowing where she stood, between her husband and her fondness, she felt completely caged. Of course, there was Elena, Guinevere's dearest friend, who understood her in ways men could not. Elena was so compassionate, so respectful, and amiable to be around, Guinevere couldn't visualize hurting her friend in the most horrific, most shocking, most scandalous way that one friend could inflict pain upon another.

"Lancelot, we cannot do this. It is impossible." She pleaded.

"Why not? Why can't we?" He asked, in the softest voice he could manage. Guinevere closed her eyes to block off the sound of his sweet tender voice and focus instead on the dangerous consequences of such a possible relationship developing.

"I can't imagine hurting Arthur or Elena like this. Never like this. This is the worst way to hurt them both. And I know you wouldn't want to do that either. You love Elena, and you love Arthur. Let us not cause pain on our dear friends, our loved ones, Lancelot. Let us pretend this never happened between us." She explained, half-arguing with herself.

Lancelot nodded in understanding, frustrated. He was aware of their situation and how perilous such a relationship could end up. However, his desires overcame his sense of conscience and he sighed angrily. "Why can't the world stop for one moment so that we can be together and we do not have to think about the consequences? Guinevere, I love you. I have loved you since the moment I laid my eyes on you at Marius' dungeon. Let me tell you something, Guinevere. I was the first one to see you, not Arthur. And if I had not let Arthur in first, it would have been me you wedded instead. It would have been me you shared that tent with, and your entire life." He stated in complete sincerity.

"Perhaps...but if it wasn't for that fated incident in which my lord had come to me first, then I perceive thee that you would not have met the love of your life." She replied coolly. Lancelot's arms hung limply at his side as he realized the truth behind her words. "I know you love me. I love you too, but it is a different form of love. The love I have for you works in an entirely separate way than the love I have for my husband and the love you possess for Elena."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his curly locks. "You are right, my lady. I do not know what came over me. Perhaps it is a consequence of my illness. Please forgive me, Guinevere. I never wanted to hurt Elena, nor Arthur. My heinous acts are to be reprimanded."

Guinevere heard the graveness gnawing at his heart. She rubbed his forearm gently and replied- "No, your noble acts are not to be reprimanded. Your sense of love overcame your sense of reason, but I will not chastise you for that. No, love cannot be chastised. I do forgive you, my valiant knight, and hitherto, I pray you to beseech your most loyal Elena. Adieu, my knight and till tomorrow shall we meet." With that, she turned and walked away, her robes fluttering behind her madly as she hurried to her husband's arms.

Lancelot nodded silently to himself, berating himself for being so foolishly heartened to have an intimate involvement with the fair Guinevere, when he knew perfectly well where his heart laid. He turned towards the tent he shared with that person who held his heart, his dearest love, and his affection all this time.


	13. A Gentleman's Proposal

**Chapter 13: A Gentleman's Proposal**

"I do believe, my lady, that I should be able to catch you." Lancelot gently reached for her hand and helped her down from the carriage. She smiled slightly at his queer behavior, feeling his hand squeezing hers tightly.

"Why, I'm beginning to think that you _are_ a gentleman, Lancelot." She teased him.

"Now when did you get that impression?" Lancelot smirked. "When was I ever a gentleman? Sometimes I never believe that I'm so grown up." With that, she turned around and took him by her shoulders, smiling brightly.

"Well, there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes. Every human being on this earth is born with a tragedy, and it isn't original sin. He's born with the tragedy that he has to grow up. That he has to leave the nest, the security, and go out to do battle. He has to lose everything that is lovely and fight for a new loveliness of his own making, and it's a tragedy. A lot of people don't have the courage to do it. But you, Lancelot," she smiled, leaning closer towards him with a crafty grin plastered on her face. "You have all the courage to do so, because you're a person of real courage, not the idea of a man with a sword in his hand, but a man who saddles up anywhere even if you're scared to death."

Lancelot didn't say anything; his muscles seemed frozen, and for a second she thought he hadn't heard her. He looked at her with amazement in his eyes. Then, after shaking his head slightly, he slowly began to smile. Then, he began walking calmly towards the brilliantly lit castle, smiling. She trailed behind him, both occupied by their own thoughts and emotions for the moment, and she was glad for the time to recover her composure. Lancelot stopped walking and turned around. He was standing by the edge of the lake looking out over its surface, his hands thrust into his pockets. His expression was thoughtful.

"What is it?" Elena asked, curious.

He looked at her. "Take a look at something, will you?" He reached into an inner pocket of his pants, withdrew a small object, and tossed it to her. Thinking it was some sort of trinket that he found and wanted her to see, she caught it...though she wondered at his odd timing. It was a small, flat box of the sort that might hold a medal or an amulet. She opened it, and her mouth fell open.

Inside was a ring.

"Oh," she sighed, carefully withdrawing the ring and holding it up. The band was gleaming silver, and the stone was in plain setting...just one very large diamond. She wanted to say something but seemed to have lost the ability to speak. Lancelot walked slowly up to her until he could reach out and take the ring from her numb fingers.

"My mother gave me this ring when I left Sarmatia. She told me that if perchance I met a woman that I couldn't even imagining losing, one that I loved too much for words or pictures to visualize, I should bestow upon her this ring." As she watched, stunned, he lowered himself to one knee before her. Elena's mind whirled as he looked up to her, holding her hand in one of his and the ring in the other.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, but firm. "Every morning when I open my eyes, I think I can't possibly love you more," he said. "I go through my day as I always do. I meet with Arthur and discuss war and battles, I fence, I practice with my sword and my bow, I talk to you and hold you, I read, I eat, I sleep. And then the next day I wake up again and see you sleeping beside me and I'm amazed to find that I love you even more...and once again I think that that must surely by the limit, that now I can't possibly love you more. Then I repeat the entire process. I'm still waiting for the day that I wake up and I love you only as much as I did when I went to sleep. I don't think it'll ever come, and I don't want it to." He smiled up at her, his eyes overbright. Elena returned the smile, her knees feeling as unsteady as warm pudding. "When I think about my future, there are so many things that could occur, some many obstacles that I might have to overcome this day or the next, so many changes to face. The only thing that I know that is constant in my future is that you're there. I can't imagine my life without you." Some sound escaped her throat, a sort of half-laugh and half-sob. The tears were leaking steadily from her eyes now. She couldn't stop them.

"Elena, will you marry me?" He whispered, his eyes full of hope and not a little bit of nervousness. "What do you think?"

Elena dropped to her knees, lowering herself to his level, and put her hands on either side of his face. "I think I'm the luckiest woman in the world." She said softly.

"Will you then?"

"Yes Lancelot. For all the world, I will." Her smile widened into a happy grin, the tracks of the tears on her cheeks shining.

When the lump in his throat subsided, he whispered to her, "You are the answer to every prayer I could offer. You are a song, a dream, a whisper, and I don't know how I could have lived without you for as long as I have. I love you, Elena, more than you'll ever imagine. I always have, and I always will." Her lower lip trembled as she heard the reality in his voice. She collapsed into his arms, sighing with happiness. He caressed her hair and soothed her, in ways that reminded her of romance stories she had read when she was young. And it was only Lancelot who could caress her hair in his certain way and calm her down in his passionate manner. No one could replace Lancelot's void in that respect. No, she realized, even if someone did try, it wouldn't have been the same. No one could have succeeded because it was _Lancelot _who stroked her hair so lovingly, and loved her so ardently. Forgetting everything, she gazed up into Lancelot's dark eyes with a trembling heart. He bent down, seeing the fiery infatuation enveloping her other senses. He took advantage of this time, kissing her with every relish and every passion he possessed that belonged rightfully to her.

He tenderly ran his fingers over her cheek. "I'm usually unsure about a lot of things in my life...the war between us and the Saxons, my duty as a knight, and my staying here in Camelot. But not about this...I know you're the one I should be with." With that, he took the ring from his hand and slipped it onto her naked fourth finger. She smiled, looking at the extravagant jewelry on her hand, then back up at the knight.

"It's beautiful, Lancelot."

"Not as beautiful as you. Nothing is as beautiful as you." He said, gently tracing the outline of her cheek, then taking her hand in his. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, and listened as she took a deep breath.

"Oh, Lancelot...I love you." She murmured softly, bringing her hand to his face and touching his cheek, brushing it softly with her fingers. He leaned in slowly and kissed her again, still soft and tender, and she kissed back, feeling what he said and believing what he thought.

She closed her eyes and parted her lips as he ran his fingers up and down her arms, slowly, lightly. He kissed her cheek, her eyelids, her lips, and she felt the moisture of his mouth linger wherever his lips had touched. The sky blinked an unearthly gray and lightning cut the sky. Rain sheeted itself against everything, drowning out all other sounds. Elena smiled inwardly to herself as she continued to kiss him in the rain, noticing how he leaned into her and felt the heat between them, felt his body, and his arm tight around her. Her body began to tremble from cold and warmth, and Lancelot, marking this, wrapped her closer in his embrace.

Elena opened her eyes and watched him through the prism of raindrops, marveling at the beauty of crystals surrounding them. She saw his body glisten with crystal beads rolling down his face and onto her. And then there were hands on her shoulders, Lancelot's hands, and he was kissing her. And when she put her arms around him, he was soaking wet and the water chilled her through her clothes and his skin was cold as ice but his hands when he touched her burned. He tasted like rainwater and tears. And with every drop, with every breath, she felt herself slipping into a state of reality. A state of love.

And when they walked back towards the castle together, their arms were linked around each other's waists, not bothering at all with the rain splattering down on their clothes.


	14. Knight in Shining Armor

**Chapter 14: Knight in Shining Armor**

"Should we tell the others?" Elena inquired her fiancé. He looked thoughtful as he thought about it, and then shrugged uncertainly.

"We might as well. They'll find out eventually. Besides, they've got a right mind to know."

She nodded in agreement and slipping her hand out of his tentatively, she reached the bar, grasping the brass handle and taking in a convenient breath as she flung the door open. All the knights were inside, as well as Arthur and Guinevere, celebrating their safe return. When they heard the door squeak open, they welcomed Elena and Lancelot inside with their mugs. Smiling, the young couple reached an open seat and smiled, Elena's hand casually lying on the table.

Guinevere was the first to notice the sparkling diamond on her friend's finger. She shrieked and dropped her mug down, splashing her drink over the counter. Arthur, startled at his wife's behavior, inquisitively stared at her.

"What is it, Guinevere?"

"Oh," She reached over and touched the ring, as though making sure it was really there. Then, she looked at Arthur with a significant glance. "Arthur, it appears that our friends here have gotten themselves engaged." She spoke this with the most casual voice she could muster, watching her husband's curiosity grow to elation. Suddenly, he advanced on his favorite knight and Elena and wrung their hands, hugged them tight. Guinevere had to laugh at his antics.

"Congratulations! Oh, of all people to be married..." he couldn't think of another word to say, but he didn't have to, because Lancelot and Elena knew what was on his mind. They both looked at each other once and then simultaneously took Arthur into their embrace together. It was gesture, not spoken words, that made a realization to them all.

They each took turns in congratulating their friends until the atmosphere was filled with festivity. Galahad raised his goblet of wine and cheered them on. For about two hours, Elena and Lancelot spent their engagement night with their friends at the bar, celebrating. Laughter and wine ran the room with revelry.

"Elena," Lancelot whispered in her ear, tightening his arms around her waist while she rested her head on his shoulders.

"What?" She asked in a singsong voice, smiling dreamily.

"I'm going to take you to somewhere absolutely magical." He replied, carefree. Elena tilted her head and swung her arms around his neck.

"You do it then. You do it Lancelot." Elena smiled. He led her out of the bar, applause ringing after them. When they at last retired away from the bar and into the gardens, Elena smiled at him, her eyes glowering brightly. She pulled him close, and kissed him. He had frozen the moment she had kissed him, and she had been for a second afraid that he would push her away - but then his hands had gone to her waist, and he had lifted her up somewhere in the back of her mind, she had been dimly aware of the other knights looking, but she couldn't care at that moment- and he was kissing her as if both their lives depended on it. His sudden explosive passionate reaction had first stunned her, and then galvanized her own response; she felt great shocks, as if of cold or heat, tearing through her nerves, burning away rational thought. They had had kisses before, sweet and gentle kisses, passionate kisses as well, but never anything quite like this - there was something messy and unguarded about the desperation of the way he clutched at her, his hands tight around her arms (the next day she wound find five bruises on the circumference of each arm, like an unfolded flower, where his fingers had been), as if he never expected to see her or touch her again.

She felt as if she were falling and there was no end to her descent. She remembered the first time she had ever kissed him and it had been like a strange miracle, all that known familiar country she had seen so often now being learned by touch: the feel of his mouth, the slight roughness of his skin, the taste of him. Kissing Lancelot, touching him, had always been like coming home to a familiar and beloved place, and she was finally here, in that familiar and wonderful home she inhabited only with him. It was like lightning, striking through her. And it was nothing like the lingering and icy kiss they had shared just a day ago. She felt the heat of his hands on her shoulders, scorching as his fingers ran down her back, burning through her dress. Her insides seemed to liquefy, transforming into to molten metal, and the heat ran through and through her, scorching her veins, turning her bones to glass.

* * *

"Don't you look pretty." Guinevere smiled brightly, lowering her cup.

"Thank you." Elena replied gently, smoothing out her periwinkle robes and adjusting the carnation that Lancelot had given her this morning. She took her seat besides Guinevere, sipping the hot cider and sighing with satisfaction.

"Excited about the wedding?" Guinevere asked, turning to Elena.

"I most certainly am. After all, I will be married to Lancelot."

"Then you'll certainly have your share of work ahead of you." Guinevere joked. Elena couldn't help the smile that was creeping out.

"Yes, I know. But I love him dearly and I will, despite the hard times that are ahead of us. Actually, I was thinking of taking a short vacation with him to Avalon."

"Really?" She seemed surprised at this idea.

"Yes. Avalon's beautiful this time around, and it'll be a nice change of air after all that's happened here. I think it'll be best for the both of us, just some time alone with each other."

"That sounds marvelous. You should discuss this over with Lancelot."

"Yes, I will later. Oh, I wanted to ask you. Do you mind if I borrowed your topaz necklace tonight? It'll match the robes I have planned to wear to the ball."

"Of course. I'll pick it up and have it delivered to your chambers after breakfast. Do you need anything else?" Guinevere asked, summoning a servant.

"No, that's fine. Thank you. Oh, I'm so excited about this ball that Arthur decided to give. It's a good way to refresh ourselves after what has happened." Elena said, finishing her meal.

"Yes. And we haven't had much balls before. I should suggest a masquerade next. That'll be more mysterious and exciting, won't it?" Guinevere laughed. "But after all these long years that I haven't been to a ball...goodness...I have not the fanciest of what I shall wear tonight! Aren't I in trouble?"

"Well, how about I help you select an outfit? We'll go to your chambers and find something suitable." Elena suggested.

"Oh, would you? That'd be so kind of you, Elena."

* * *

The dress she had chosen to wear that evening was modeled as closely as memory allowed on the dress her mother had given her to wear so many years ago- still her favorite article of clothing she had ever owned, albeit briefly. Only the color was different; a dark rich cinnamon brown instead of lilac. It had the same fitted bodice, lacing up the back, the same full skirt and wide scooped neck showing rather more of her shoulders and the top of her chest than she was generally used to. With it went sheer silk stockings and a dramatic pair of high, strappy shoes. She glanced at herself in the tiny mirror over the sink but it gave her back only a tiny part of her reflection, so, gathering up her full skirts with one hand, she went back into the bedroom.

When she came out, there was a knock on the door. She hurriedly ran to open it, and found Arthur standing on the opposite side. When he saw her, his eyes widened and then darkened, and although all he said was, "All dressed up, then?", she knew he admired the way she looked. Of course he would though. Arthur seemed to be one who noticed things like that.

"Hi," She smiled at him with bright eyes, inviting him in. He did, mechanically, and fell into a red velvet chair. She smiled again, more to herself, and went over to the larger mirror that hung over the vanity table. She looked at herself briefly, then picked up the necklace she'd been planning to wear that night, the one she borrowed from Guinevere- a topaz on the end of a silver chain- and reached to drape it around her throat. Feeling unaccountably nervous, she fumbled the clasp.

Arthur stood up. "You want help with that?"

"Oh. If you don't mind," she hesitated for a moment, then reached around and put the necklace into his hand. He looped the slender chain, bowing under the weight of the smoky topaz charm, around her throat, and paused, his hands just brushing the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She felt the tiny hairs all up and down the sides of her arms prickle as he looked at her, his eyes gone dark and serious, reminding her so much of Lancelot's own dark eyes. Suddenly she saw herself the way Lancelot saw her- the smooth curves of pale-peach skin rising from the bodice of cinnamon silk, the very dark curls of hair, so carefully arranged, looping like hyacinth tendrils around her face, her wide dark eyes, her full lower up, trembling now with nervousness. She spun around in the circle of his arms and heard the snap as he closed the clasp of the necklace, and stepped back and away from her.

"You look beautiful." He said lightly, his breathing quick. And she knew she did, maybe more beautiful than she would ever look again.

"Thanks. Are you getting dressed soon?" She asked, looking him up and down.

"I was just coming over because Guinevere wanted to ask you something. She needs you quick, it seems." Arthur smiled. "She still won't let me have a look at what she's wearing tonight."

Elena grinned, "You need not worry, Arthur. It'll be something, I can assure you. But I have to apply the finishing touches first. I'll be there shortly."

The King nodded, bowed slightly, and departed, closing the door quietly as he left. Elena looked back into the mirror, glancing at herself with amazement. She looked down at her fourth finger, at the engagement ring she had received from Lancelot, and smiled again, visions of the future popping occasionally into her mind. It seemed like her dream had finally come true after all these years of waiting and struggling. Her knight had come for her.


	15. The End of the Beginning

**Chapter 15: The End of the Beginning**

"Come on, Lancelot. Elena will be here any moment. And I still need to get dressed." Guinevere pleaded with the shadow standing behind the floating Chinese silk screen that closed off the walk-in closet from the rest of the room.

"Fine, I'm coming. Goodness Guinevere, you sure need to get a hold of yourself." Amusement danced in Lancelot's words. When he stepped out from behind the curtain, Guinevere couldn't suppress a gasp. He wore black trousers that looked as if they'd been designed especially for him, and a soft dark blue shirt that brought out the tinted undercurrents in his eyes. His shoes were dark brown leather, the kind that looked as if they probably cost quite a bit of money for just a shoelace. He looked a little older, a great deal more elegant, and very, very rich.

He looked at Guinevere and smiled. His hair had gotten long enough to curl down nearly to his collar, and against his tanned skin the faint scar along his hand stood out as silver.

"Like it?" He asked, though he knew from her expression that she was lost for words.

"Somewhat less revolting," said Arthur, coming from the bathroom, dressed for the ball in charcoal gray trousers and a dark green shirt. He smelled pleasantly of pine and his hair curled untidily.

"I should get dressed myself," said Guinevere. But as she rolled off the bed, the door opened. Elena was standing there, radiantly pretty in dark brown satin, her hair pulled back neatly and her face framed by a cascade of curls. Elena so very rarely fussed with her appearance that she looked so pretty when she did try. Elena's light eyes went immediately to Lancelot, who was looking at her, looking a little stunned.

"You look beautiful," he said.

Elena said nothing, just turned pink. Lancelot went over to her and kissed her very gently on the cheek, brushing back a stray tendril of her hair as he did so.

"May I point out that this is _my_ bedroom," Arthur interrupted, eyeing Lancelot and Elena's goggle-eyed display of affection in an icily glare, although Guinevere could see the twinkle behind his eyes. "If there are going to be any snogs going on, either I should be involved in them or they should go on elsewhere. And since I wish in no part with you two..."

Elena turned pinker. "I just came to help Guinevere, and to announce that people are starting to arrive," she said primly. "Guinevere, Merlin is here-"

"Really? Oh, I have to get dressed quickly! Elena, can you come and help me with something?" She rushed into the bathroom, dragging Elena along with her. Elena shot an apologetic glance to Lancelot, and disappeared from sight. Arthur and Lancelot were left standing in the middle of the room, silent.

"I still can't believe you asked Elena to marry you." Arthur smiled as he rounded on his best friend. Lancelot smiled back, shrugging.

"I love her, Arthur. I want to be with her forever. I am able to love her truly and happily, and not just for some pleasurable fun. She's different from the rest of the women I've been with. She's..._real_."

"Real?" Arthur's voice echoed the room.

"All the other women wanted was just fun. Never asked me to confide in my thoughts or feelings. Never wanted to know what I've been up to, what I had done. Elena's completely opposite. She cares about me. She feels what I feel. She knows what I know."

"Only true love makes you feel in this way that you tell of." Arthur informed.

"I know. I know Elena is my true love. That's why I'm marrying her. I love her."

* * *

Elena found Lancelot standing alone against a wall of the ballroom, looking extraordinarily serious. Despite the fact that it was the first ball Arthur had given, he seemed to be standing far apart from the rest of the crowd, so far sunk into thought she felt it might take a fishing line to retrieve him.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. "Elena!"

"Did I startle you?" She smiled shyly.

"Yes- just a little."

"What were you thinking about?"

His eyes seemed to slide into focus as they studied her face, the brown deepening to nearly black. "Nothing. Do you want to go somewhere? Talk maybe?"

"Yes." Elena jumped at the chance to be alone with him. "We could walk on the balcony."

They left without anyone noticing, through the French doors that were partly concealed by a pillar wreathed in fairy lights. Outside, the cool air struck Elena's face and bare shoulders, making her shiver, although the night was fairly warm. Moonlight spilled over the pale stones of the balcony, lighting the garden and the empty gazebo wreathed in white lanterns.

Elena took his hand. "Over here."

She led him into the shadow of an archway, against the high wall of the castle. He looked at her inquiringly.

"I wanted to give you an engagement present," she said.

"I thought we were meant to be doing presents are midnight," replied Lancelot, mildly curious. They had planned on giving their presents later that night, along with Arthur, Guinevere, and the rest of the knights, privately without the other guests.

"I wanted to give you this present in private," Elena said.

Lancelot's eyebrows went up. "Does it involve dancing and chocolate syrup?"

"No," said Elena firmly. "For that you'll have to wait until Christmas."

Lancelot grinned. Taking a deep breath, Elena retrieved the small box she had so carefully wrapped from a pocket of her dress, and handed it to Lancelot. She watched as he took the box from her and tore away the wrapping, his quick and clever hands flicking the catch aside and snapping the box open deftly. She held her breath, watching him– his dark brown eyes widening, the uncertain look on his face as he raised those same eyes to her– and her heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her so directly. Everything about Lancelot was direct, his gaze, his walk, his movements, his speech, the way he loved her. He said, looking down at the box and then back up at her, "This looks–expensive. Elena, I--"

"It wasn't expensive," she said, raising her chin. She could see herself reflected in the dark circles of his pupils.

"It must have been. It's a beautiful watch," and Lancelot reached down and took the pocket watch uncertainly by its silver safety chain, and lifted it out of the box. The moonlight struck a point of cold fire along the rim of the watch's face. "I've needed a watch since...I was young, but I couldn't--"

"Turn it over, Lancelot," she said, and he did, and she watched his eyes widen as he looked at the inscription carved there.

"I never told you, but I passed by Sarmatia before. I passed by, and," she looked up at him with expectancy, "I met a family there. I met a real nice family, mother and her daughter. I stayed with them for a while. She told me about her past, about Sarmatia, about...everything. And she told me something else too."

Lancelot's heart skipped a beat. "What did she tell you?"

"She told me of a son she had. A son she was ever so proud of, and loved with all her heart. She told me her son left home to join the Roman army fourteen years ago, and she hasn't seen him since. She told me she feared that her son died long ago, and that she never got a chance to say she loved him." Elena felt tears coming to her, but she swallowed hard. "Do you know who that woman was? The woman who loved her son more than she knew?"

"Who?" Lancelot's voice came out in a croak, but he had a strong inkling.

"It was your mother, Lancelot." Then she looked down at the watch. "Your mother gave it to me," she said, her words spilling over each other in her haste and nervousness. "To give to you– she said it was your father's, your mother gave it to him when they were engaged and it never left his wrist after that until the night he...died..." she stifled a sob, "and she took it off your father's wrist but it was broken. She tried to fix it, took it all over Sarmatia but no one could fix it, so she wasn't sure what to do with it, and she gave it to me and told me that if by some miracle, I'd find a handsome, young, Sarmatian knight who went by Lancelot, then to give it to him. I promised her this, and I took it with me. Along the way, I stopped by another town, to a repair shop, and they fixed it straightaway. They fixed it right off. After I met you and fell in love with you, I went to another repair shop and I had them put that inscription in under the original– Lancelot, I hope you don't mind--"

She trailed off at the look in his eyes, and very slowly, he glanced down and read the inscriptions, the one very old, worn and rubbed away a little, and the one below it brand new.

_For Adam, with love from Aisha, who will always love you. _

And underneath that:

_For Lancelot, with love from Elena, who will always love you. _

"I hope you don't mind," she said again, and Lancelot's eyes flew up, dark and a little incredulous.

"Mind?" he said, a faint ragged edge to his voice. Words seemed to fail him entirely then; he put his arms out, and she went into them with a feeling of relief, as if she were shedding a heavy burden. His hands stroked her back and she could hear them whisper against the satin of her dress, and then they were on her bare skin and she tilted back her head and reached up so that he could kiss her, and he kissed her.

* * *

Arthur and Guinevere stood on the wide stone balcony that ran around the outside of the castle. They were embracing, wrapped in an envelope of love. Cold silvery moonlight spilled like a pile of coins over the cool flagstones, glittering on the moat water below. The evening was perfectly still, the silver-blue horizon motionless and steady, the silence unbroken–

Until they heard a sound. A laugh, punctuated by a soft and indrawn breath. Arthur turned and saw two figures standing in a shadowed alcove: the two people, in fact, that he had been expecting to see. Lancelot and Elena, standing so close together there was almost no light visible between them, their hands interlinked, her face raised up to his. The moonlight turned them to a study in contrasts, Lancelot's dark hair and white skin, the outline of her hand against his cheek, her bare white shoulders rising out of the darkness of her dress, the shadowy curls that lay along her neck. He knew them as he would have known them anywhere, but in the dimness it was hard to tell where he ended and she began, whether they were man and woman or boy and girl together, whether they were real or ghosts. They could have been any two people in love.

Footsteps approached, and they turned to the sound. The rest of the knights were standing together, watching Lancelot and Elena from a distance, smiling. Arthur held Guinevere tighter against him, looked towards Lancelot and Elena, and smiled back.

"What are you guys doing?"

The knights looked at one another, then at Arthur. "Finding peace." And Arthur smiled blandly, holding Guinevere close to him, and seeing that indeed, peace was never that far away.


End file.
